The cure to set the wicked sun takes fuzz,
Nostalgic wah-wah collapsing my lung,
Distorted more than any sober man
Who’d retread Vibrators with sour tongue.

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It was like old school Devo videos, and it made me happy.

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It can now be told: this month’s Rrose in a Prose: MAH! literary salon will now feature writer/director/actress/singer/artist/L.A. RECORD editor Drew Denny! That’s today, folks, for those keeping tabs on that “time” thing.

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A classic Freudian father-hater, I came to the show with the possible intention of shaming John Lydon. I had jokes ready. I was prepared to say he looked like a Killer Klown from Outer Space—and you know what? With his stripey socks and orange suspenders that glowed under the black light, and his tuft of Tintin hair perched on top of his middle-aged head as he read old lyrics off a music stand, he really did. But even in his Sex Pistols days, when he aped Richard III, he’s never been the type to care whether people thought he was a buffoon. The only thing that scares him, it seems, is whether people like the music he’s making.

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This album is one of those most rare gems, an album that follows through on the promise of hip hop and breakbeat that rarely gets fulfilled: full sample immersion that leaves its sources big and bold yet fully, delightfully rearranged, a true collage braided together lovingly with original combinations of boxy beats and tinkling treble tones.

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Dogged fans of the band will probably balk at the more “professional” engineering on this thing, but like Sonic Youth’s transition to CD half a lifetime ago, the only way for this band to move forward is to open up every aspect of their sound, including the fidelity.

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It’s not a smug look, but they know. They know. This band is going places. I just hope they don’t forget me when they’re booked into the Bellagio and are doing rails of boysenberry blow off the back of Lara Flynn Boyle.

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It’s like there’s a decoder ring missing, a key that we need to find to unlock Presley’s private mythology. Until then, we have only clues, repeated phrases—Roman noses, Asian motifs, lizards, references to war, and of course, perfume.

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This single’s A-side has that abrasive, no-holds-barred, “ancient gods cause blood to flow through the streets from their perch atop the bowels of space” vibe steeped in repetition that much of “extreme” metal had between the Hawkwind/Motorhead era all the way until Metallica decided H.P. Lovecraft was cooler than Jack Kirby.

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