M.I.R.V.
Cosmodrome (Mammoth)
by Elisabeth A. Parker
Hmm. A disturbed adolescent just happens to find a guitar in the trash, starts gigging, gets blow jobs, and becomes the post-apocalyptic messiah. This is a “concept” album… uh, CD… complete with an alcoholic, redneck father and sacrificial lamb of a mother who just don’t UNDERSTAND. In his dramatic denouement, rock boy Roy gets pierced and tattooed beyond recognition, then blows himself up. Nothing less would impress jaded hipsters at the Cosmodrome, the post-nuclear rock scene’s hottest venue. In case you can’t follow the plot, the release comes with a quirky comic.
Meanwhile, the rest of us lead ordinary lives because last week’s trash day only yielded a mildewed dishdrain and a couple of broken chairs. Sigh. I expected something less sophomoric than the ol’ phallocentric rock-star-cum-jesus thang from guitarist M.I.R.V. (Limbomania) and producer Les Claypool (Primus’ bassist). They probably concocted this cautionary tale as a joke, but with irony selling at a dime a dozen these days, who can tell?
Yet, my initial distaste fades as I take the CD for a spin. Listening to Cosmodrome is like hanging out at some wild ‘n’ wacky jam session with virtuosos on acid. M.I.R.V. blends eclectic musical influences with off-kilter humor to create a hyperkinetic mosaic of sound punctuated by cheering crowds, intriguing snippets of dialogue, busy signals, beeping alarms and sybillic mutterings.
Highlights include “The Walk Back Home,” an anthemic three-chord piece that appropriately harks back to The Who; “On the Prowl,” which cruises along in retro surf fashion; and “Jumpin’ Bones,” a funked-up rap number spiced up by bizarre psychedelic synthesizer sounds and grunting basso-profundo backup vocals.
“Cantina” evokes the Cocktails’ pure silliness, as the band concocts an unusual blend of exotica, surf and rag flourishes, then throws in a Glenn Milleresque big band beat. “Souvlaki,” the obligatory soulful ballad in which rock boy Roy loses his band chick to the owner of a Greek restaurant, marks the turning point. Rock boy Roy’s disillusionment now draws the listener into the dark vortex of his increasing angst.
“Jerky Beat”‘s insane background jabbering and dissonant jazz chords clash eerily against a cheerful walking bass. A demonic voice booms, “Don’t be afraid… body alterations aren’t THAT painful!” The band lurches into “Pipe Wrench,” a song so aptly titled that no further description is needed, then segues into “Shave My Face Off,” which slowly descends into avante-jazz-industrial chaos. Roy’s afore-mentioned final number blazes into a bass solo so raging that you forget Roy is supposed to be a guitar player. Then he explodes. The end.
