Pish in Your Sleazebag (Blast First 1991)

I posted their album Five Fingers, Four Thingers, etc. this week, but this release is entirely a horse of a different color. Yes, they still possess the ability to blast beat their way through chaotic punk songs, but the band have embraced a more chaotic path, but one where oddball samples, electronic fuckery, relatively quiet passages and industrial meanderings/tape loops ala Severed Heads enter the fray. Now, this isn’t to say that they have transformed into a bleak, noisy offshoot of Throbbing Gristle or the Kronos Quartet, but they have expanded their musical worldview.

This album makes you wonder why I ever associated them with The Ex and Dog Faced Hermans because Pish in Your Sleazebag alternates between testosterone-fueled anthems that wouldn’t sound out of place on Amphetamine Reptile, jagged Gang of Four fiascos and oddball smooth jazz interludes that sound like bad Ninja Tune outtakes. Overall, it rages non-stop and their vocalist jabbers like madman throughout, but the experimental touches point towards a more interesting future cut short by their dissolution.


Five Fingers, Four Thingers, a Facelift and a New Identity (Uk Moksha 1988)

If there was a reality show to crown the biggest puss-puss of the late 80s, I would have been an excellent contestant. Although I didn’t develop into the pinnacle of manliness that stands before you until my collegiate years, I always pursued catharsis through my musical purchases. Husker Du, Bad Brains, Pixies and even 24-7 Spyz enabled me to pump my fists in a fruitless rage against the faceless souls who somehow held me back. In retrospect, I was just a big puss puss and I held myself back, but there was no talking to me in my cubicle of a bedroom filled with Nintendo games, masturbatory rags and a pile of cds that kept me sane.

One of my most cathartic albums was Stretchheads’ Pish in Your Sleazebag which was released by Blast First in 1991. The riffs were batshit crazy, samples appeared out of the blue, the vocalist screeched like a goddamn banshee and it all rollicked onwards in a chaotic onslaught of noise. This is their debut and I only discovered it in the past few years, but I think I prefer it to their followup which inspired many a pumped fist. Less samples and desire to fuck with the listener, this one is all adrenaline, aggression, poor recording quality and wound-up hatred. They were contemporaries of better-known art-punks like The Ex, Dog Faced Hermans and Dawson, but they did it the best in their own ham-fisted manner.