A compilation of an LP and a couple seven-inches, this is the '93-'95 body of the slurry, slurry Jaks. If you're a fan of Love Life, Sea of Tombs, or The Celebration -- this is where members of said bands started out. They're all new to me, but they slur, slur, slur, and flex their contrapuntal Birthday Party rhythm section well. I've always liked the fact that, as with martial arts, music has a drunken style. David Yow slurs at the audience, "yeah I need yuh, justlike I need your mouth, fulla my cock" and everyone looses some spittle and pretends that the grease they generate can only make them convulse faster to the bandwagonwreck sound. If you're reading this thru narrowed eyes, just keep thinking Uzeda/Bellini with a little less g-force and you'll know what to do. This welling up and spilling over is all in the body of Jaks, and they deserve some points.
Some points for passion and poise, but of course none for ideas. These guys and gals just play the music they love, like a slurry slopcore jukie. Is it worth your $? Sure. It's a compelling messy mess slurred beyond recognition. Yet there are lyrics! "Hand held above my, I'm seeing red. Open the door and then, what'd I do with my hands? Do I smoke or stick 'em in my pocket. Too stuffy I wish I had some to do with them. (Good Luck) Somethin' to hold or say or do with 'em. Sometimes get caught step out and do dumb shit." There. That filled up goddamn paragraph two then. The titles are more entertaining than the lyrics anyhow, and you can read those below.
Now, someone, somewhere is probably saying Jaks were something slurrily majestic to see as a live act. But I can't hear 'em cause it's cyberspace. And I'm tired of that scenario. To be fair, though, this is not so much an album. Nor are the LP and two singles included. It seems Albini just captured the band jutting through their sideways trajectories in a salty sweatbox for some posterity. This is an artifact of a band that, while aesthetically restricted, keeps the bungee stretchin, snapping, flying into your face and chippin' your teeth asunder. Chippin' your white, your yellow, your gnashed teeth to give you sloppy fangs to sink into your own neck. Take my word for it -- this gravesite is monstermash ready and then some. For pleasure. For yer slurry, primordial slimey, slipshod pleasure.
P.S. Sir Charles Rowell of Some Girls / The Plot to Blow Up The Eiffel Tower does him some great album art/layout. Hats off, sir.
1. Carnation
2. Damn Bloodsucker
3. Dumbwaiter
4. Black Paper
5. Cock of the Walk
6. The Conversation Lags
7. Spitmudd
8. Del Chimney's
9. Spider
10. Fridge Cake and Pismire
11. Merrily The Gore
12. Master P
13. Shake
14. Alamo
15. Cavity
16. Bomb Pop
17. Ed's Steakhouse
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