Why I Hate Women (Smog Veil)
by Craig Regala
Jesus, the Midwest rolls on, just like I said it would. My generic philosophy is the heart of the Midwest incorporates a “this is what we do, so let’s do it” mantra into what the “Midwestern” culture may mean. Mantra, mantra, mantra… Some of it can be gleaned from Pere Ubu‘s 21 year career in meat and potatoes heart-tugging, eye-rolling dada. ’60s rock melodies frump up next to droning, hissing, and blorbing within the rock and roll.
Like some post-rock band transported to the past, eating corn dogs with the Marx Brothers listening to classic rock and hoping to rip off some cool James Gang, Spirit, or Stooges riffs to weld to lyrics about birdies flapping around in a marble bird bath. A birdbath so dirty it looks like cement, and you don’t even notice the human teeth in the muck. The singer wasn’t kidding when he told Research magazine back in the ’70s “we’re the second psychedelic era.” Yeah, you guys and Chrome. I wish.
But is it any good? Yeah, it’s good. The promise of “indie” reality was the desire to do what you felt and wanted to despite that desire’s relationship with whatever someone else – the music industry, ma and pa, your “peers,” your own fears – tells you. I’ve always liked the lack of pretension in the “art” part of these guys. They wheeze and drunk elephant waltz because that’s what seeps out of’m, not too make a “point.”