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Rating: If in 1984 you're hanging around New York and you're totally alienated and enslaved by it, then you're screwed!
If you worship all the musical filth your city has produced and all the garbage you listen to through your headphones sounds like a barrel being smashed with a hammer and you play your out-of-tune guitar with an iron file, then it might be that you're looking for some psycho like yourself to start doing “something.”
If you're a walking corpse without knowing it but your gag reflex tells you that you're not ready for the grave yet, then it happens that this urgency leads you to form a Band.
If you decide to call yourself Honeymoon Killers, a '70s film “dedicated” to a couple of serial killers, and you name your debut record “Honeymoon Killers from Mars,” it means you're either at rock bottom or have taken an acid trip that didn’t do you much good.
If the tunnel you've entered is unlit and you're also claustrophobic, the result can't be anything other than what my Hi-Fi is spitting in my face: a nightmare, malevolent, perverse, and dark!
The honeymoon opens with a mephistophelean grin accompanied by an ultra-disturbed and delirious funeral march, like a sort of ride through the most primal and animalistic horrors.
The hyper-noise raga of “Cornbread Fed” reminds me of “White Light White Heat” sung by a werewolf after a night of disemboweled bodies, infernal bacchanals, and bloody bites (“I Love to Eat It”).
Terror takes over within the walls of a room haunted by the worst nightmares (“Room of Doom”), where urban alienation awaits its irreversible and impending sentence.
Right when everything seems on the verge of collapse, there’s a sort of slow and laborious recovery: the death-hungry zombies that have accompanied us so far cling with nails and teeth to the musical tradition that they perhaps unconsciously have in their veins: it's with “Place in France” that they see that unexpected glimmer.
What to cling to if not to “Ubangi Stomp” (Alice Cooper), a kind of anthem to the most visceral and wild Rock & Roll, the only anchor of salvation amidst this heap of decaying debris (“Ubangi Stomp is a rock and roll. It beats anything that's ever been told. Ubangi Stomp, Ubangi style; when it kicks, it drives a cool cat wild. Ubangi Stomp, thank.").
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