By Lauren Wise
By New Times
By Amanda Savage
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Troy Farah
By New Times
By Derek Askey
I often picture myself lying naked in my trailer with the worst records imaginable spread across the floor around me. Empty beer bottles everywhere. I see myself lying there dead with a Limp Bizkit jewel case next to my head. There's also a couple of REO Speedwagon reissues. The new ones from Bone Thugs-n-Harmony and Insane Clown Posse. Sade, Michael Speaks and the Ally McBealChristmas record are there, too. Just the worst shit you could ever think of. There would be promo pictures as well. Horrible mugs scattered about. Like the Offspring, Don Henley, Beanie Sigel, perhaps. Those fat twerps in Papa Roach.
Man, that's no way to go.
It's almost Thanksgiving and what've I got? I ask myself this because I think it's important to look around you every once in a while and take inventory. It keeps the suicide bone from twitching. Besides, you've got to know where you stand. Or, rather, you've got to know that you have somewhere to stand. Y'know what I mean?
I'm well stocked with beer and smokes. I have soup, some rye bread, food for my cat and a refrigerator to keep all the shit in. If you think about it, that's a fortune.
Today, I got a bunch more promo crap from the mailman, which I plan to sift through later when I'm good and lit. It's funny, each week I get a mountain of discs from the labels, most of which I promptly trade in. Lots of free stuff there, y'know, free money.
All the dimwits that I knew back in high school have bought houses, boats, SUVs, and roomfuls of computer crap. They've moved up. At least that's how they explain it to me.
I figure I've got just enough to be grateful for. I figure that to be grateful for anything is, in itself, a good thing. The thought of perishing with Limp Bizkit next to my head just doesn't do it for me. Happy Thanksgiving.
Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water
Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water is clot with pricey production hooks, stone-faced electronica, likely guest stars (Scott Weiland, DMX, Method Man), and the rap/metal din of rich white solipsists who've successfully passed themselves off as antihero radicals to the kids of America.
Durst blows much breath on this record telling us he don't give a fuck.
Durst doesn't care; neither should you.
Calling the Wild
Blips and blurps of early Ultravox and Eno-era Bowie without any of the sparkling melody, subtlety or humor does not a decent pop record make. First rule of pop: Never make a record that leaves your mouth tasting like unflavored Jell-O.
Besides, anyone using the words "Euro" and "Fashion" sequentially in a lyric line ("Saving Faces") should have his head shaved, be forced to wear horrible shorts and a baseball cap, and thrown to Limp Bizkit's road crew.
Really, the title of the album captures it best. It is, after all, a halfway clever euphemism for flatulence. In the end, it proves the band deserves a gold star for honesty, if nothing else.