Killradio
Raised on Whipped Cream

THE REVIEW

The 2004 Korrea had the tribal tattoos, was a tuning enthusiast, and had a Nissan 350 Z with low rider to show off with two wheels on the sidewalk, the flashing green neon underneath, the back window adorned with Alpine stickers, and other delights. Those were the golden years of racing down airport tracks and raiding Punk'o'teca—which I now discover still exists: good!—adding the NOS and hating the fascists at full speed, hating George W. Bush, hating the powerful for hiding the truth from us.

Now that I've had layers of semi-hairless white skin sewn onto my original inked epidermis, I drive a Splash 1000 cc—voted Reactionary Car of the Year 2012—and when I look up at the clear sky and see streaks, I know it's because of my misaligned lens; now, of those times, I no longer even have Raised On Whipped Cream by Killradio, lost in the hell of data lost from dead hard drives along with so many other musical atrocities born out of chance, intense P2P sessions—those rudimentary P2Ps—and stuff like Tony Hawk's Pro Skater; now, I feel relieved. The weight of the Iraq war, anti-terrorism, and no-global conspirativism was too grave for an acne-ridden teenager who ultimately—now it can be admitted—only cared about the strong bass, the screams, and wearing his cross like a Christ nailed by the thumb to an X to go faster at those games where the important thing isn't even participating, but simply having nothing better to do.

In this album, there were strong bass, there were screams, but there was also a lot of naïve hating George W. Bush and inevitably the end of the Bush era marked, punctually, also the end of Killradio ("you can't blame a black president"); play it for your kids to give them a past to dispel with an embarrassed smirk and without any nostalgia when it will be thrown away, buried in the Ingenueou Antifa toy bin.

Listen to it today, ten years later, and find yourselves aging beautifully in comparison, you adults: lose seconds of life but gain ten pimples on the chin for the beat-boxing at the start of Penis Envy, a true collection of anti-American profanities that our generation of angry young men made their own and threw around as an excuse for everything; stale armpit-hormonal for the intro of Entertained they made radio for the music, now they just make music for the radio; also up for grabs is a big backpack with graffiti and circled A's made with correction fluid if you listen to Scavenger and like the chorus, with Brandon Jordan, the singer, mimicking Jello Biafra here and there but also having a nice yell and a name every under-14 PlayStation kid would choose, if they had naming rights.

Dedicated to all the embarrassing data lost from all the world's dead hard drives, wherever they may have ended up.