From: Doktor Pete Newsgroups: alt.alien.vampire.flonk.flonk.flonk,aus.flame,alt.fan.karl-malden.nose,alt.romath,alt.genius.musical.ward-hog,alt.fan.fucking-pigs Subject: Home Drinking Is Killing Music Date: Mon, 30 Apr 2001 18:36:26 +0100 Organization: Doklands Mafia Lines: 77 Approved: Fluffy told me to do it Distribution: Hell, Hull, and Halifax Message-ID: <9ck7ao$jl8$1@intimidator.databasix.com> Reply-To: Usenet, dummy NNTP-Posting-Host: intimidator.databasix.com Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Summary: nicer than wintary Keywords: public, yale, mortice, dead X-Extract: Shiny beast of thought X-Ink: Spilled down the sink X-Not-Bad: Just genetically mean X-Howard-Knight-Killfile: entry #5 X-KotAGoR: you bet X-mhm: 26x10 X-d00d: #d066y-57yl3 X-Cohort: #10 X-Meow: Meow! X-Cabal: TINC X-Or: 0110 X-Loafhead:  ___     -     -        _________________________________   / ___ ___ \     /                                 \   |/   V   \ |    | Hi! I'm Maryanne Kehoe. My head |   | _     _ \|    |  is shaped like an olive loaf.  |   |  ~) (~  |/)   \__   ____________________________/   |   |      /       | /   |   "")   '        |/    \  /|        /     \_  __/ |    /| --     \ X-Face: 8_Iz"5!M:M[.91)%t.5cPb$/|!f=m?A;/Rtq=zo$'q(/3@n47)-4a6`vzv`Ce^WE6;L\*\f@%(4,/t%BZW|MP.H+370%m#OT299yNu3MDG<7ugjp/3V[xz>0+tP"42sq%_HaGrYq~yn:6mfS{JG%m]]at2+_6 X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.8/32.548 Home Drinking Is Killing Music The postman knocked on my door this morning with a well-wrapped package containing "The Greatest Shits", a 36-track monstrosity containing the complete oeuvre of The Fucking Pigs. Well, that was my day completely ruined. Well-wrapped, I said. You bet your eardrums it was. I counted four separate layers of protection. Outermost, the padded envelope itself. Inside that, newspaper. Not just a few sheets of newspaper. No. That would be too easy. Instead, it's about half a newspaper. Inside that, a layer of corrugated cardboard. Inside that, the *other* half of the newspaper. The Pigs, whatever their failings as musicians, are true geniuses when it comes to packaging. Every effort had been taken to protect the contents in its journey across the world. Having now heard the CD, I am left with one pertinent question: "Why bother?" [An aside: on reaching the cardboard layer of my excavations, a horrible realisation as to the contents of this package suddenly dawned upon me. There, staring me in the face was a logo proclaiming "The Black Douglas: de luxe 100% Scotch Whisky".] Some musicians strive to produce a physiological response in their listeners. They use tones designed to mimic natural bodily processes; the resonant frequencies of the human ribcage or the frequencies of brain states such as alpha rhythms. Others achieve this by different means, again deliberate. In this category we must consider the saccharine output of the Japanese J-Pop production lines: hormonal, cloying, ugly toothache music. And in the third camp are those few bands who achieve this purely by accident. It is here that The Fucking Pigs reside. They produce a music so staggeringly, painfully unpleasant, that simply to casually hear it causes unease and nausea - two words that are nearly anagrams of each other, in the sort of happy coincidence that neglects to link words suck as "Pigs" and "suck". We're all familiar with the two primary aspects of The Fucking Pigs's music: unfeasibly amateurish guitar and the body-shattering belch. However, that is all surface. If a chance encounter with the Pigs' music was bad enough, it is as nothing to the sort of close investigation that a reviewer's task demands. It is here that the listener first encounters the true, yet seldom acknowledged, horror that lies at the heart of their work. I write now of what, for want of a better word, must be called their "vocals". "We've... got... haemorrhoids," they proclaim on Shitty Slide, the opening salvo of this 36-track monstrosity. If the flatulent quality of the lyrical matter was not enough, the Pigs have the temerity to "sing" these lines. En masse. Whether by astute microtonal tuning, or pure alcoholic chance, the harmony of this lyrical outburst cuts through the music like a rusty knife through rancid butter. And from here, you are suddenly made aware, things can only get worse. What are we supposed to make of such lines as "I'm a goose. Thomas the Tank Engine is my other name"? There is only one plausible answer: the Pigs are mental feebs and must be pitied. Astonishingly, this band of sad inebriates seems to have no difficulty in finding musical co-conspirators. What sort of pathetic reprobates would condone participation in such crimes against music is beyond my comprehension. Guest artists include The Shitty Producer, Boof Pig, LGG, and The TINC Project. Should you meet these people, shun them. To go through life as The Fucking Pigs is punishment enough for the core members, but to encourage them is surely a criminal act. Whether you're a long-time listener to The Pigs, or a newcomer, there's something on this CD for you to avoid. Even your humble reviewer, a man who considered himself hardened by experience, still found himself capable of being shocked and appalled by songs such as "Trash & Stash", "Bitch Pig" and "Post Inebriated Intermission". "The Greatest Shits" is not a CD to merely avoid. It is a CD to run in terror from, screaming at the top of your lungs. Take it from me. I listened to the whole thing and it fucking sucked. http://www.petitmorte.net/fuckingpigs/ -- ## /m\_/e\_/o\_/w\_/ \_/ \_/m\_/e\_/o\_/w\_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ \_/m\_/h\_/m\ ## ## \_/ \_/ \_/o\_/ \_/ \_/e\_/ \_/ \_/o\_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ ## ## / \_/ \_/e\_/ \_/ \_/o\_/ \_/ \_/e\_/ \_/ \_/ \_/2\_/6\_/x\_/1\_/0\ ## ## \_/ \_/m\_/e\_/o\_/w\_/ \_/ \_/m\_/e\_/o\_/w\_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ ## ## / \_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ \_/ \_/H\_/K\_/K\_/F\_/#\_/5\ ##