In light of my last post I will be starting a new segment that you will see every other Wednesday from this point on called: "Cap'n Guthrie Backpedals" Its where I actually step down from the deck to rabble on with the crew and take a look at my musical mistakes, of which there are few (hence doing it every other week).
and first on the list is Matmos - The Rose Has Teeth In The Mouth Of The Beast.
I was pretty psyched about Matmos and their banging on things and recording it. They record things like cow guts, snailshells, jerking off onto a microphone. no kidding to all of that. Sounds pretty fun right?
Well I didnt think so when I first heard it. To my ears it sounded like a musical version of Wheres Waldo. Wheres the cow guts? Which of those sounds are the roses? Where is Bjork? These thoughts clouded my ears. Forced overthinking's cottony substance into them. Instead of hearing music I heard a sequence of splats and squishes made of the "what sound was that" game.
That isn't to say I didn't want to hear music. I wanted so hard to be able to piece the beats and swirls and farts into my ears and brains. Alas, my thoughts would not let me. It was like reading a great book printed on several hundred cinderblocks. All I wanted to do was lift each sound up and take it somewhere to study its crevices rather than see the completed edifice.
However! After the hair-dye and tight pantaloon fueled dust died down around Matmos I waved my hand through and through the grimy air. Coughing, wincing in eyepain, and listening. and liking.
I enjoy the swishing almost watery sound of Germs Burn for Darby Crash. I enjoy the psychotic Rag for William S. Burroughs. I enjoy the deep brass and brashness of Snails and Lasers for Patricia Highsmith. Each song tells the story of the particular gay or lesbian artist it mentions in its title and each song, amazingly, is listenable in each their own manic way.
I therefore renege on my earlier selve's cold shoulder. The album is like listening to a more fluid, warmer in a way, version of The Books. No distant clipping of samples or bouncy computerized flips and gadgetry.
Roses and Teeth for Ludwig Wittgenstein