Arab on Radar

Queen Hygiene II (Heparin)
by Jessica Rylan

The suburbs are a scary place. Suburbanites are always feeling smug about being safely removed from the “crime-ridden” city. In the city, there’s a lot of property crime, i.e. breaking and entering, mugging, and car theft. Since greedy materialism is the biggest suburban value, property crime is horrifying. But the kinds of crimes that are common in the suburbs go unacknowledged, thanks to the suburban love of keeping up appearances. Suburban crime is directed at humans – school hazing, gay bashing, child molesting, rape, and domestic violence. Since you can’t put a price on human violation, none of this registers as crime in the first place.

Arab on Radar‘s lyrics could be mistaken for suburban retardo-punk, obsessing over naked girls, toilet humor, and parents. But whereas I find bands of that genre unlistenable (a bunch of boys making the same sexist in-jokes over and over again is more about affirming the status quo than questioning it), AOR elevates suburban paranoia, anxiety, and whininess to high art. Thunderous bass and drums produce an instant headache; your older brother the mental defective (who you never mention to your friends) drunk once again, pounding on the wall and smashing things in the next room. The two guitars shriek simple repeated lines, but they’re never on the same note; your neighbor’s cats fighting to the death in your backyard. And then the retarded glue-head kid from down the street whining. He picks his nose in public and never flushes the toilet, hoping everyone will tell him how proud they are of his snot & shit. “My dentist is very angry I do not keep my dentures clean because of this diaper rash and guilt about my wet dreams.” “Mommy is in the dog house soaking up the piss with cotton balls I am in a snowsuit with a dog whistle. My daddy said `Eat the yellow snow.'” Not very surprising that the kid’s an idiot savant, his lack of self-censorship is more honest than the Joneses in either of the houses next door. Ever wonder what all that repression and self-denial produce? Empty value-free days pledging allegiance to the flag at school, plastic weekends shopping at the mall. Trying to be a robot but ending up berserk and destructive.

There’s no melody or harmony here, and singing along would be a difficult feat. This is not funny or a joke. It is totally raw, driving, piercing. A very unpleasant experience. A whining pain in the ass you’d like to slap. A temper tantrum thrown by infants who’ve learned how to curse and walk on two legs. This is “punk” if that word means anything. Funny, I don’t think all those suburban “punk” kids will buy this.