'It' Doesn't Belong in My CD Player

by Wayne Hendrew

Sigh. Did you ever have one of those days where you're just so angry at the world you want to slam your fist through a speaker? I'm having one of those days right now, but you probably don't care. I'm sure you're thinking, "I want to hear what Wayne has to say about the album." Well, if you're a fan of Abysmal Crucifix, you won't be happy.

They caused my mood.

That's right. Listening to their latest album, Backseat Delightlah! (which is out today), got me to that quivering point of rage where all I could do was sit there, for about 20 minutes after the CD had ended, listening to the hum of my CD player and contemplating why I had subjected myself to this album.

Sure, it starts off well enough. The first track, "Radioactive Penis," is a strange hybrid of a capella singing and guitar experimentation. A little like Mogwai meets Spacemen 3 meets Gregorian chant, but worse. This is followed by what I guarantee you is the finest 10 minutes of music Abysmal Crucifix will ever produce: "Rolling in It," "Put It Where It Doesn't Belong," and "Bay-Ooh-Tay-Tay." The lyrics for the last two are nauseating, but the music is fine and the melodies are poppy. Compared to the previous two albums, lead guitarist Girth McDürchstein does a halfway decent job of making sure the guitar solos don't get out of control. These are tight, well-crafted rock songs.

The rest of the album is 100% worse. The next three songs, in addition to Abysmal's trademark ribald lyrics and metal licks, are boring as shit. It's just 10 more minutes of album, but it felt like at least an hour. And then, even worse, McDürchstein tries to do this whole "A-side"/"B-side" thing, completely switching up the genre halfway through the album. It goes from fast (or at least midtempo) rock to slow, dour ballads with a snap of fingers and a bit of ukulele goofiness ("Sax on the Beach," which lacks a saxophone of any kind). We get a baffling meditation on death, a tragic-yet-arrogant story of abandoning love for rock stardom, a horribly offensive tale of racism, and a trippy but ultimately failed attempt to capture the "feeling" of "Self-Medication" using only guitars and studio trickery.

I always want to avoid the obvious jokes when talking about Abysmal Crucifix, but at this point I'll throw in the towel: a band misguided enough to put "Abysmal" right there in the name deserves any flak they get. And folks, this album truly is abysmal.

-Wayne Hendrew

Reprinted from Pitchfork Media [review link], June 23, 1998