Blue Daisies
Wilt

For the glorious label Iridescence Records in the Year of Our Lord 1985, four home escapees known as "blue daisies," along with other shady individuals already cataloged for sonic atrocities, release a "wilted" album where the drooping of the little flowers demonstrates a restless indolence: thus appears a combo of assholes, pieces of shit, jerks tout court who cushion the insults hurled at them with a goofy grin and a rattlesnake (s)rattle, stirring further agitation pre-poisoning.

Sublime slackers, akin to a "cynical" philosophy, Diogenes permitting, they wander in a noisy idleness. The noisy randomness is shameless but coherent, despite the "motherfucking-ness," we find them likable. Beardless yet already mature to annoy in a refined and irritating way, they are always forgiven with their personal petal-tossing: "loves me, loves me not...", "gives it to me, doesn't give it to me..." A dangerous invitation to an onanistic degeneration to get lost in astigmatic "outflows" that unbalance us with the side effect that this "intimacy" might actually please us. But yes, let's raise our miseries by recognizing them in this cauldron that cooks an indispensable absurdity to make fun of ourselves.

It would be a mistake to consider this a warm-up to the Blissed Out Fatalists album (already reviewed by yours truly) two years later, even though Jeffrey Poe and Nick Greene always contribute to staging a superb "caciara": the work is an entity that floats in the void with that boisterous singing enclosing infinitesimal splinters of roaring Genesis, with those guitars bouncing foolishly and carelessly, with that epidermically annoying yet magnificently inserted drumming in the ultimate noise sewer. The stomachache that the lack of any melody causes is a godsend that these ruffians dispense, further sanctifying Californian post-punk and launching us cacophonously. We can do nothing but turn the other cheek with a surprised and satisfied grin to this lunatic asylum of cobalt blue lashes. It's reassuring to realize that there aren't just Flipper and Butthole Surfers: "California über Alles!"

The cover reveals under its ragged guise a cultured and dangerous amusement, the boys are smart and always ready to refresh their wits by whipping up impromptu pranks. Jokers of nonsense perceive fun as a "cackler" distortion that implodes the eardrums of abstract pleasure: they sing it and play it disregarding everything, in perpetual pursuit of maladjustment as an antidote to boredom and uniformity.

The tracklist suggests a veiled concept: high ideals (Anthem/Pillars) immediately downsized by reproductive fantasies (Slot) and primitive requests (Suck Me), gone "blank," they move on (To Be, Continued) suffering a bit (100 Tears) but finding entertainment in another kind of movement (Dance Dance Dance) that triggers high considerations (Everything and Nothing at All) hiding a concrete desire (Es Amor, Hand Job) that seals the "we (are not)" (Beautiful Kid). Live concert animals licking microphones... and "Suck Me!"

Independent waves (board included) that tell fair-play hypocrisy to get lost, slipping away from the flat nightmare of globalist "correctness." The involvement is impersonal and without challenge, whoever's there is there and off into the rigged Hyperspace. An aptitude test to determine the degree of nervous endurance of assumed sober characters and unmask fake alternative poses.

A sharp little gem that I highly recommend to accelerate the divorce that is within you.