8
\t Camp from the Video Store
4 4 ' i l 4 ' 4 * i 4 1 4 1 • 4 1 * * * * ' 4 4 4 | 1 1 4'4 1 4
By Will Dodson
FEATURES COLUMNIST
I don't know about you. but
to me there's always been some
thing missing: from retarded
E* ~
redneck
chainsaw
bloody nubile
body slaughter.
That something
is mood. You
can't film that
stuff .just any
where. The set
ting has to be
perfect or the
gore has no
meaning, no ar
tistic merit.
Obviously, Texas is a good
place. Summer camps are nice.
But they're overused, you know?
We need filmmakers to be daring,
to sever the ties from unoriginal
environs for violence. We need
Studio City: "an incomprehensible string of beats"
By Jeff Irving
FEATURES MUSIC CRITIC
rating-1/2* (half a star)
What an album
...a bunch of really
"cool" sounds and "in
ventive" textures and
rhythms...yet the
damn thing isn't the
slightest bit "engag
ing." Brad Laner
made better use of
molesting his guitar
to sculpt feedback into
sub-My Bloody Valen
tine noise pop when
he was in Medicine
(and his subsequent
band, Amnesia, which
I have yet to hear
much of) than he does
pretending he's an ab
stract junghst on Elec
tric Company's al-
bum, Studio City. His songwriting
skills were always a bit weak, but
his unearthly guitar sounds usu
ally made for an interesting Listen.
Here, he's not even playing his
guitar, so this album is an incom
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Consider this: the
chainsaw serves as rep
resentation of
the oppressive phallus,
threatening to tear
into the flesh of
K. C. and Jo.
I I
COURTESTY OF ISLAND RECORDS
Features
filmmakers like whoever it was
who made Junior.
This retarded redneck with a
chainsaw lives in the bayou. And
he knows what he's doing—that
chainsaw gets waved around like
a baton. That
s**t takes tal
ent. Especially
when you note
how much
Cajun moon
shine the guy
puts away.
Anyway,
we can't waste
a guy named
Junior's flair for
dismember
ment. We need
ditzy women in short cutoffs.
Luckily, two ex-con hookers have
just moved into town. They sun
bathe naked, they build a house
naked, they shower naked, and if
that's not enough, their names are
prehensible string of skittering
beats coupled with some vaguely
"atmospheric" collages of new
found sound. •
The few tracks I listened to
in the store seemed mildly entic
ing. "Arbor Sirens" is a clattering
amalgam of sine waves, re
contextualized metallic percus
sion, and ungraspable breakbeats.
K.C. and Jo.
We have an exhi
bition of high art as
we gaze upon the un
bridled splendor of
these brazen beauties
set in the gorgeous
backwoods of Louisi
ana. The director ob
viously makes art for
art's sake, and
Samuel Taylor
Coleridge, I imagine,
would feel more than
his chest swelling
with pride.
The bayou set
ting serves the film
further than as just a
background. In the
murky depths of the
filthy swamp water
lies the key to gender
equality. Consider
this: the chainsaw
• l
Please see Video, page 11
"Darken an' Slobbering" sports
some slightly better beats and dis
torted keyboards providing a bit of
"texture." "Born Algebra Skinned"
(Where the hell does he come up
with these ridiculous names?) has,
you guessed it, more semi-rhyth
mic "abstraction" and a few video
game sounds. I could barely tell
these songs apart. The rest is even
less memorable.
Back in the 1970'5, Kraftwerk
completely revolutionized the
world of popular music with
simple, repetitive synth melodies
and squared-off beats on primitive
drum machines, while more recent
electronic artists with better tech
nology, deeper "philosophies," and
more complex sounds can't hold a
Music REVIEW RATING SYSTEM]
* This will give you a migraine. j
** La, la, heard it before.
*** I would keep it in my CD collection but wouldn't
take it on a road trip."
**** It hasn't left the CD player since it left the store.
i, |. I ' --■■■
THE GUILFORDIAN
OCTOBER 9, 1 998
s - - *■ K'V! ' ' \ '' '
' V
V . "
MATTHEW ZUEHIKE
I ooze, I tell you. Ooze, ooze!
candle to those joyous songs about
autobahns, showroom dummies,
and man-machines. I guess this
proves that music that puts heart
and soul to the side can still work
well if it has complete mastery of
the instruments at hand and/or a
slight air of innocent fun to hu
manize it. This time around,
Laner's milquetoast drum loops
and forced sense of "exploration"
insinuate that Studio City has nei
ther. I am really incredibly disap
pointed because Brad Laner's big
gest asset has always been his
penchant for evocative, glor
iously distorted, freezer-burned
soundscapes. Here, he merely
scratches up his Goldie CD and
plays it through a fuzzbox.