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Rating: I increasingly think that in art one must learn to unlearn. On a state, social, and popular level, art is always hierarchized as "Knowing How to Play - Not Knowing How to Play - Knowing How to Draw - Not Knowing How to Draw - Knowing How to Act - Not Knowing How to Act - Knowing How to Write - Not Knowing How to Write." But in the end, what does knowing or not knowing mean? Knowing what? The process of streamlining one's individuality spreads thanks to the megaphone offered to state figures, to common teachers who direct and shape towards what is stately and formally recognized as art. Thus, from that beacon that teachers are, lessons on "How to Write/How to Play/How to Draw" in a correct, beautiful, and clear way descend en masse. This, on a personal level, is the most castrating violence toward one's future uniqueness: it boxes writers-musicians-painters into a hypothetical grid of given value. "He's a great musician; he studied at the conservatory" --- "No, he doesn't know how to play at all; he doesn't have the basics."
Millions of mongoloids (with the Genghis Khan metalheads standing out here for their obtuseness) will always be trapped, anesthetized by these never-reasoned, discussed, or abandoned social categories. "He has a beautiful voice" "He's technically prepared" "He's good at drawing." Paintings for restrooms, spastic background music, scholarly songs for academic nerds with blood at rest: this is what the social leads to. This is what the academy leads to if it doesn't forget what is good and bad, right and wrong, this is what you reach without unimaginable injections of personal abandonment and disorientation. Art is the tidal wave that quickly bites the beach where you were carefree sunbathing just before. Art is the dismay of the renowned meteorologist in knowing he has betrayed placid families by driving them towards the rain. Art is clearly dark. David Yow is a non-singer, a recidivist unlearner, one who, in the wake of David Thomas and Captain Beefheart, has built a vocal register aligning it with the fractured frames of urban psychosis in an Abel Ferrara film, or with the neo-realist expressive virulence of a "Mouchette" signed by "Robert Bresson." Jesus Lizard, that is, when moans, sobs, chokings, and off-key notes are elevated to art by an acrobatic, circus-like musical trio. Take a Hardcore song: debone it, humanize it, blow radioactive green smoke over it, and disfigure it into Post with the help of Jazz, of Noise. One of the greatest rock bands in history: among the unlearners par excellence. In order of value: 1) Goat 2) Head 3) Liar 4) Pure 5) Lash (EP).
Tracklist and Lyrics
01 Glamorous (03:07)
Well, they called me a little so and so and so, yeah
Now hummin' a different tune
Oh, this is a job for a stupid man
Smoke it down to the filter and put it out on your hand
Them cops was lined up about a week long all down the road
True crime homosexual gangster men were, were piled up on my living room floor
Well I'm gonna get my own rifle down, and point it on in your eye
And huff a big long breath, and shoot it
Shoot it and, and shoot it and shoot it and, and shoot it and shoot it and shoot it and shoot it
I'll call the cops on my own self, figure out a way to please those men
I'll play detective, I'll play bloodhound, sniffin' up clues with my nose in the mud
Down here in my shantytown, leave you alone, for the rest of my life
By the time I got my ass up off the grass and on the sidewalk
Made my way toward the house, well
I realized they made their way home
I know this shit will continue
02 Deaf as a Bat (01:40)
Utter gibbersih, except for sad sack kack arelya
Sounds like:
My baby jump off the ceiling, take a look at yourself goin' into that
I know where bevs and venchetta (baby sends antenna)
Stick out the arm and the needle
I'm an old ?? (wap-bop) feelin
?? (Snowing), it got got it got it I got you
Looking at you, sit down atop bop the footstool
Seeing into the midnight, (in the) middle of the day
Sit down (back) right over here, sit down a goddamn minute
Sitting on the wa-wall ?? (we're) ready
Not ready to say you are, sitting here in pure mania
I can't expect ?? (ta sing) this into ya
Sad sack kack arelya cuz I know you're ?? (wrong)
Now you say ya can't find my needle,
stuck it into somehow my ?? (cookie slow)
Sweet girl ooh wah ooh wah ooh wah yah babe, wah wah wah yah yah ooh ooh ooh ooh
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