Thirteen Day Getaway (Atlantic)
by Jamie Kiffel
“Dude, dude! Aw man, hell – what the hell is that, oh man I was so, like addicted to that movie for like six months or something and then this girl totally stood me up before the last time it opened and then…”
“Hell, shit, I saw that movie, that had such a screwed-up soundtrack, we could totally do better…”
“Aw man, we could, we should start a band! That would rock! Let’s do it! Oh hey, there’s no line for the Mind Scrambler, let’s see if that guy is running it so we can stay on ’til we puke. That would rock.”
Such was the height of psychological inspiration I perceived upon Review Listen #1 of this disc. Second listen: “Wow, this is catchy,” I think. “Does this want to be… punk?” Third listen: “Wait… vague images of Reagan surfacing through snowy brainweb reception – ten-year-old Corrosion of Conformity sensors being lightly needled? Fourth listen: Portrait of Reagan decade-old Trinitron-clear with unmistakably recognizable traces of devil horns and beard-enhancing… er, obscuring features. Fifth listen: What the hell is scrambling my anti-Reaganomics receptors? Sixth listen: Holy God! It’s Corporate Music Megalith come to intercept pure punk signal, image scrambled, replacement image: Andy Griffith?! Thus, upon riding the mass-music thoroughfare, we are bound to find, lying severely altered yet still somehow functioning by the side of the road, some aural animals which dared creep across the mainstream, only to be flattened by a rush of mass-productions racing down the Autobahn way to top 40 success. Such is the case with Thirteen Day Getaway. I enjoy the eardrum-stick quality of these quick and poppy tunes. I like to be able to sing along. But do turn up your sensors and listen deep as mainstream music attempts to overwhelm you with its rebellion-numbing signal: At the base of all this is something raw, something trying to yell harsh and rough over the crystal-clear vocals and neatly arranged guitar progressions. There is a creature here that wants to cross the divider. And somewhere in its fur, clutched in its curled paw, is a marker, still poised to deface an image of youth oppression… can you see it? Thanks, corporate rock, for a nice-sounding disc without the messy indignation showing through.
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