Fatal Flying Guilloteens are reckless and irreverent — the only catch is that they’re really not. J. Adams, S. Adolph, M. Bonilla, R. Mata, and B. Mcmanus have spent more time spit-shining their act than immersing themselves in truly irreverent music-making and -playing. These Houstonians are calculated in their miscalculations — sliding on a phallic banana peel on-stage, smearing the sole of a Chuck Taylor All-Star, pressing in 55378008 on a Texas Instruments solar-powered and turning it upside-down. For those that know FFG, it’s the same primal, raw, salmonella-sweet skronk. I don’t see the blues other critics claim. (Do I see lightnin’? Yes. Do I hear Hopkins? No. Angular, repetitive riffs do not make a Delta blues deviation.)
The parenthetical subtitle to the album -- A Fictitious Real Life Account of Young Love in the Streets -- means nothing to me, probably nothing to you, and most likely nothing to the members of FFG. It, like much of their musical, mythic, and genetic makeup, is an attempt at irreverence — empty and available for mockery. Even so, it’s fun. Fads can be fun. Fabrications can be fun. Feigning misconduct can be fun. Keep in mind what the late, wife-stabbing Norman Mailer said: “In America, few people will trust you unless you are irreverent.” After listening to Quantum Fucking, something is begging me the question (begging on all-fours while nipping and gnawing at my heels, mind you): You can’t guilt a teen, but can you guillotine one?
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