100 Flowers
100 Years of Pulchritude

If that playful mix of pop thrown on the table by Camper Van Beethoven, Trotsky Icepick, Ten Foot Faces, and Dentists can always win you a hand of cultured musical carefree, the unexpected royal flush of a cynical pop offered en passant by the "florists" further disorients our horizons. Especially since there’s no raising, you “pass,” with that conclusive badge in hand, where one reaches a slacker’s enlightenment situated in a floating zone of observations.

And what topics for reflection are stimulated by a group that makes dragging its proof of disappearance? From youthful punk incontinence, the Urinals become skilled gardeners, replacing the watering of shrubs with a more suitable irrigation for new experiments, supported by the right urinals provided by the Californian label Happy Squid. And then the genius move of Rhino reissuing all the 100 Flowers production in 1990 on this CD—too much, it risks an overdose.

Here the play becomes dangerous because you play with knives that cut even from the handle, dangerous because, upon listening, an essence of rock pop funk industrial country folk post-punk psychedelic avant-rock petals emerges, seemingly thrown together haphazardly. And yet, applying oneself a bit to astral visions, one would notice the invisibility of metaphonic pop-noise that mocks our cult-musical convictions.

And the scandal is a retrieval of an unexpected sound aesthetic that sneakily works the periphery, taking the breath away from our certainties. And the excavation isn’t openly invasive but drills in a meticulous manner with those cacophonous drills that open onto crystal-clear underground frescoes, deteriorating the melodic patina within us.

A fine favor, like when you realize you shouldn’t use toothpaste anymore, which, aside from slowly poisoning you, further calcifies the pineal gland already atrophied by this unfavorable cyclical period for us non-terrestrial humans.

The little orchestra raised by these deliberately dissolute characters triggers within us the desire to acquire, due to the demanding musical apparatus, that green thumb to treat our "garden" with the right resonances. A cure for musical sophism is served on the silver platter of sacred indifference that sweeps away scaly enrollments.

We remain holding a glass of ionized and dechlorinated water, laying the foundations through a liberating hiss that launches us into a pantheism of noises that reassure us in their sanding away of the accumulated earwax that echoed too many "monotheist" refrains in our heads.

We regain the primordial punk hum infused with eclecticism and flee the deceptive songs of Sirens suggesting softening harmony. Sugar is sweet but harmful, roses grow better with organic fertilizer. Here we are beyond the "they will bloom."