Ween
The Mollusk

SpongeBob.

Endless marathons in front of a TV on Wednesday nights, eyes wide open.

There is no more time, but time exists. And it counts the hours.

Every minute is an instant that is born and then dies.

-

<<Are you ready, kids?!>>

Sure, captain: ready for a lifetime.

It's a tough beast to see the Sun rise after a sleepless night: why didn't you sleep?

Why must morning arrive? Why is it no longer yesterday?

-

Shower, shave. Perfume. Shirt.

Coffee: I'll take it directly at work, come on.

<<Hey, hi, another crappy day, huh?>>

I would say there have been worse anyway.

-

Eheh, you liked playing your crappy songs in crappy places, didn't you?

You liked being so naïve, petulant, a fake dreamer?

At least you got the mold off yourself. Not much else is left under all that dirt…

A little mollusk without a shell. A really horrible, horrible creature now.

-

<<Hey, you know what? Fuck you!>>

Applause.

-

A starfish as stupid as shit. A yellow parallelepiped. Yellow. Those little tentacles playing a clarinet. Ihih.

Hi mollusk. Hi.

-

The Ween were a mollusk.
Brilliant in some ways. Insufferable in others. Brilliance in the form of trinkets. Stuff sold as brilliance. American college stuff.

Then they grew up.

I'm no longer the age to appreciate the eternal Peter Pans: I admire those who shake off the mold and re-enter society with a less mocking smile.

Here, Ween stop flaunting complexity, stop winking while giving you a playful elbow jab in the ribs. They extend their hand to the listener, they form a real band.

They produce, arrange, play, and sing divinely.

From mockery, they move to reinterpretation. A tribute? A less mocking smile.

-

A pop album with all the credentials to be loved on the first listen.

Wonky solos on delayed polkas, pearly synthesizers deep in the sea. Tavern songs, obscenities. Enchanting songs.

In I’ll Be Your Jonny On The Spot they sound like Devo on amphetamines, in Mutilated Lips they seem like Mansun on horseback. On The Blarney Stone they called Tom Waits, in The Golden Eel Eric Burdon goes semi-punk, on Buckingham Green mandolins play on an alien synthesizer and a never-ending solo marches towards a symphony of violins and timpani.

But hey: they are not fooling you this time. Relax: it's REALLY a nice pop album.

-

Then there's Ocean Man, which ended up in SpongeBob.

One day I'll watch cartoons with my son and laugh at them all, from beginning to end. I won't remember certain Wednesday nights.

Fuck you.