I used to work with this douche. We've all had this brand of co-worker before: the prima donna. He once called in sick because he was "getting his hair done" at a "salon." For two hours. We worked together at a gas station, mind you. Yeah, I know right!? Anyway, he told me the music I listened to – at this point [1996] Clutch, Helmet, Melvins in particular – was too angry, that it wasn't good for the soul (he predictably preferred trip-hop). He didn't do drugs, but loved talking about all the fights he'd been in. Violence was his vice. He was also, in his mind, a party person, telling drawn-out stories of the amazin' raves he'd thrown and how he was always the guy that ran around saying things like "You guys havin' a good time? Guuuud," and other shit. We've all endured this party type before: the energetic, douche-y sober guy everyone wants to send through a meat slicer.
He also claimed to be a model and "in the scene." He once told me that no female model would ever, ever, in a million years, hang out with me; "They just wouldn't be interested," he said. He knew this beyond a doubt. Keep in mind, I hadn't asked him whether or not I had the "status" to hang out with models. I had no interest in the first place; he just launched into a spiel about it one day. That's the kinda guy he was: a metro sexual – the bad kind – with an axe to grind with just about everyone.
He could act this way because he was "good looking" enough to be a "model," though he inexplicably worked at a highway convenience store 40 hours a week. On one particularly sunny day, a customer asked if he and I were brothers because we "looked so much alike." This didn't bode well with him because he was a "model" and I wasn't. I treasured the moment and the look on his face more than anything in this world. It almost made up for the time a small child pointed at me, with my long locks of hair, and asked his mommy, "Is that a boy or a girl?" (Yes, that really happened, ha!)
Douchewater later moved to LA with a douche friend of his to, GET THIS, work [choking off laughter] at [mpfffff, shit!] M...T...V [ohshithahahahahahahhahhahwhatadouche!!!] as an unpaid intern. A fitting end for a phenomenally well-practiced, insufferable high priest of douchedom.
The reason I bring this no-good douche up is because I associate the Party Persona he described with those shitty white-boy dance-rock-rave-up bands I hate, the ones that ruin their halfway decent arrangements with terrible vocals and always seem to be on top of the hype heap. Like my former co-worker, they are too concerned with being the life of the party to realize their lack of depth. They forget that pressing a party to CD is impossible; that anything sounds good when you're neck-deep in ass in the middle of a dancefloor. Simply put, DFA, eat a dick, yo (and, incidentally, thanks for signing Liquid Liquid).
With this in mind, I segue into a thoughtful evaluation of Drop The Lime's We Never Sleep because it easily could have sunken into the same pitfalls. Although it does dabble in a few avenues better left unexplored ("Butterscotch"), namesake Luka Venezia uses a sharp eye for contrast and dynamics to boost himself above peers that adhere to essentially the same format.
Like most of his persuasion, Venezia falters most when he tries to jam too much funk into his trunk, most obviously on the hokey-pokey "Skyline Fantasy." But when he sticks to pouncing on bouncy bass and skittering drum beats, he's tough to tangle with. Most encouraging is his daft use of vocals. They aren't obnoxious, and they aren't annoying. They even, perish the thought, add a little citrus zest to Venezia's throbbing cocktails of "dance" music that might be too cluttered to dance to unless you know the whole album top to bottom.
And when the Lime drops like it's hot, you'll feel it fizzing and swirling deep in your bowels. "Devil's Kicks" meanders around typecast party favors for a few of its six minutes, but when it kicks in it REALLY lays down the law. Bass pumping into my ears, effects dancing around the edges, background rhythm tracks filling in the gaps; it's the stuff of legends. It gets you going. It's impossible to hear this track's crescendo without longing for the hot, sweaty nights of South Beach, and against the laws of "Baby don't hurt me/ Don't hurt me/ No more" music, it sounds really nice on its own. Maybe not revolutionary, but very, shall we say, 'doable,' like Thora Birch maybe. Suffice to say, those with enough pairs of tight hotpants to melt a two-ton block of ice will love bumping this in their nu-Volks on the way to Friday night thigh-humping sessions at Banana Joe's.
Jane Q. Dances-a-lot will dig Drop The Lime, but most surprising is the fact that you will, too. Don't make this album the next Limeade; you've got to try this tangy treat, lest you, too, become a party-first, quality-second douche. Oh, and by the way, no music reviewer would ever, EVER, in a million years hang out with you; they just wouldn't be interested. I know 'cause I'm a music reviewer. 1. Wake Up Call
2. Devil's Kicks
3. Hot Sauce Grillz
4. Coal Oven Fevers
5. Butterscotch
6. E-Lock
7. Bella
8. Full Moon Rising
9. Triceratops
10. Turn out the Light
11. Skyline Fantasy
More about: Drop The Lime
