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Killing
Joke
Killing Joke
label: Red Ink
released: 08.05.03
our score: 3.5 out of 5.0
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I smell the precious gasoline and hear
the crackling huff of burning tires, as oily dust smudges my goggles
and the post apocalyptic wasteland becomes vivid, terrible, and
free through the soiled lens. Yet, there is a radiant pulsing
in my ears.
Dirt and blood gather under the nails of
my cracked abused hands. The warmth of the female is distant and
dreamlike as a dust storm of broken glass encircles my body. My
eyes strain to keep shut while tiny razor glass shards rip a thousand
little holes in my skin. Blood, sweat and resolve solidify in
my mind thumping to a triumphant beat. I appear to be sweating
blood as all previous protective intellectual clothing is shredded
into a confetti of raw gut wrenching reflection and observation.
No more options, no more choices, no future, no past.
My cheeks burn hot as flames leap from
the hood of a four wheeled dying monster; a doomed,rugged, red,
rusty, gashed-metal predator. Anything goes in this world where
Killing Joke captures and epitomizes the intensity of a harsh
loud grinding dusty rampage through a barren bleak mental landscape
of independence, corruption, anger and distrust.
As if the little smiling murderous sweet
innocent animal boy with the finger chopping, head splitting chrome
boomerang grew up to be song writer. This is the throaty soot
filled voice of the waste land.
Engines, fire, aggression, animal skins
and football pads.
Relentless hammers pound tribal rhythms
which move and travel ferociously over a melodic theatrical terrain
of survival, growth, and despair. Smart piercing prose keeps pace
to a stomping cadence of biodegradable madness on this very focused
high energy recording. Brit/Clash style poetic punk vocals spit
forth a frothy brown superfluous venom , eroding political ideologies
via industrial battle cries while a gollom like creature surfaces
periodically to slither and wail black smoke filled secrets over
wood splitting guitar riffs.
Where is my shot gun, my gas can and my
dog?
Dave Grohl on drums?
The master song writer rock god himself
back in the saddle?
How could I not love it? I'm sure somebody
out there would call it a classic.
This
album is the loud energetic sonic soundtrack to my Mad Max fantasies
and first in the cannibalized disc changer of my V8 Interceptor.
06-Oct-2003
4:30 PM
About
the author:
Cody Robert McClintock
is an artist/film maker from California whose latest project is
entitled Maybe Logic – The Lives and Ideas of Robert Anton
Wilson.
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liked Killing Joke...
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