Bobby Lightfoot: Tosser.

Look at that crap right there. Oh, my sweet god damn foot. There's no way this dude is heterosexual, incidentally. I thought "I Love Lucy" was back in the '20's or some crap. There is something so seriously flawed about "presenting" "something". I don't know what this guy's smoking. Crickey.

'kay, it's all here, kids. You got the fucking organ leslie thing and the vintage "warm" keyboards". You've got more "Bohemian Rhapsody" fucking massed flanged harmonies than you can shake a Jellyfish record at. Or preferably HUCK one so it breaks into a trillion derivative little pieces. Oh, Jesus it's "warm". "Matinee" "is" "so" "warm".



How gayly postmodern it is of this git to use the "quotes" so you know it's "pastiche" of the highest "order".

Anyway, where was I? Oh- this record is like the musical equivalent of if you took a picture of The Vaselines and made a perfect negative of it. I think everything's probably recorded with some gay-ass "tube mics" and "tasty tube preamps". It's that sort of god damn affair. It's like the Carpenters smoked about an ounce of "Maui Wowee" and Karen turned into this sort of dipstick guy with the mannered-out-the-ass vocals.

I really don't know who the fuck "Bobby Lightfoot" is trying to be. Someone should tell him that he can't be "The Gay Elton John" because Elton is already a card-carrying member of Rough Putter Royalty and Rufus Wean Right is next in the Line of Sucksession.

The songs? Well, let me put it this way. The songs are like pages from the notebook of a tosser. You know the thing. Sweeping peans to Old Europe and that. Someone should confiscate Bryan Ferry Lightfoot's '70's albums and put him on a diet of slow, drunken southern crunk, British protometal and Nashville Pussy. And don't let him dallie with whatever the hell sex he's into because he turns it into a succession of tenth-rate Van Dyke Parkserisms replete with white Wilsonesque Drug Addled Whimsy.

Did I mention the "warmth"? It's so "warm" is "Matinee". It's all "warm" and "punchy" and "mastered with real tube gear". This fucking dude makes me feel "punchy" as in punching his oh-so-clever upturned schnozz. All the "round" Fender Rhodes and all the "funky" "B-3 Leslie" organ makes me feel like I'm at a black roller rink and it's White People's Hour. Oh, and all the "lofi" drum loops make it just all so proper.

I don't know what the future of music is, you know? I hope it's crazy and bracing and inventive. It sure as hell isn't going to be records that have their "names" in "quotations". And the people making it won't be using tools and sounds that their granpappy would find quaint, and would remind him of his childhood.

What a lot of rot. This sort of piano bar balladry belongs in a cheezy ass tavern in Kankakee where sleazy salesmen hook up with the local talent. Definitely the soundtrack to a cheap pickup. If Barry White is the ultimate makeout music, then this stuff is like fall-asleep-inside- her music. Nasty, nasty stuff.

Nasty.

If I Ever Meet Evanescence They're Going Down.

It will not be pretty. There's so much wrong here. It's not just my own personal mountain to climb. I'll be feted. I'll be in People with my little dog and my accoutrements. There's just so much wrong here. You people think this sort of thing doesn't hurt us but you're all wrong. You have to wake up and realize that every time we let something like this happen we suck just a little chrome off the Trailer Hitch Of Life, if you follow me. Oh, the Trailer Hitch Of Life is unlustrous as of late.

If I ever meet Evanescence they're going down. Down to the dark place where Those of Kicked Ass crawl, begging mercy from their furious judge of doom. Down under the stage where their multiplicity of contrivances gleam in the oily acetalyne glow, revealing their utter lack of merit. Down, yes, down farther to the deep caves where the Mudvark dwells, dwells and eats of the talentless winners of the Golden Ticket.

And when eaten of their bones the Mudvark has, down yet farther will the scurrulous beast send them, like ants spiraling lazily towards the center of the Big Flush of Eternity. So deep shall Evanescence burrow into the dark places their hero God won't even be able to suck their souls up in his vacuum cleaner. With the Hell attachment. $29.95.

Like dust in the wind will their depleted ashes be. Blown to the four corners of Crapdom on the ill winds of Shite. And gather they shall that lustrous night, the ill winds of Shite. The sky will be the color of whey, uneasy and full of a terrible portent.

And never again will their pasty, foolish, meaningless, ignorant, 6th-form, clueless agenda-rock pablum be foisted upon us again by devious little tanned men in suits. Little men that say things like, "it's just not Mo Tucker-ey enough", or (here's a real one for you) when you do a bitchin' modern version of a Beatles B-side, they say, "it's just too Beatle-ey". Beautiful. If you want to know who is really to blame for Evanescence and their car-ad rock ilk, look no further than these little satans. A fatwah upon them. All of them.