Dusted Features Dusted's Emerson Dameron looks back at the year in...uhh...something Tweet

Aardvark Taint (Emerson Dameron)

The froth-chugging cosmonauts in Boise’s Downtown Python Conclave have been fiendishly fidgety these last few fifths of a fortnight. Fortunately, their releases are available strictly on microcassette, as we don’t cotton to los discos compactos round this yonder. You already know about Get Your Ass In The Post-Colonial Gravy Boat (on the band’s own mighty formidable Holy Goddamn imprint), forty-five minutes of relentless electro-static fruit-on-the-bottom bingeing followed by a protracted breakout for the cooldown. Get thee to a hilltop and sing out, sing out, o untoward solider. And don’t y’all do no nappy-time number on ye olde DPC’s glock maestro (by “glock” we mean “glockenspiel,” and we’ve got a whole ‘nother spiel on that) Steven Sash, who’s backed up by some aging pseudo-beatniks we know on his solo masterstroke The Tusk Of St. Lemur (Holy Goddamn). It’s groovy and grainy and rocks the boat to boot. Meanwhile, percussion puffin Leprechaun Moonpie (Asa E.L. Williamson) cuts loose with some bowel-transporting roto-tom improv as Smegmaphone on Soup Troupe Bloopers, also on Holy Goddamn. All will be appearing at the 2006 No Fun Fest, assembled and singly. Ten-hut!

Anyone who worships wicked anglers but is weary of getting nostril-fucked by the underwater overlords should get thee a Chatty Cathy doll from your nearest true independent culture canteen, because the new slab of star-juice from Racoon Wolf, Screaming Follicle Particles, plays only in the doll, baby. It’s a lot like rolling up a how-to manual for a compass, smoking it, and living to regale with the tale. WW mastermind Geoff Crispwake also produces Double Dukes, the formidable new frisbee from Japancreas (on Hellfinger), and runs the thrice-beatified Hellfinger Records and Roadmaps in Ogden, UT. Mush, huskies!

To bisect and dissect the new Cassingle from Japanflute Herpes (Ten Pound Tapes In Five Pound Bags), we turn this beltbuckle party o’er to F and O, who ain’t no Rip Vans, no sir:

F: Oh golly. It’s the new thingy from Japanflute Herpes. It looks like a tape of some kind. I’m so excited I can barely keep my contacts on.

O: Sit down, champ of chumps! You must be cleansed by the spittle of this omnivorous beast called rock.

F: It’s sort of like Cancer Squirrel meets Beaker Bucket on a crowded escalator, going backwards. I just can’t get the swing of this. Maybe I need to drink more.

O: For shame, you not appreciating this transcendent album. You must not like Slurpees, either. An early naptime for you! Shall we drink more?

F: Drink more we shall.

The new fresh ‘un from Magick Mountain Python Time, Cinnacrackle (Excreat), is out now on lathe-cut cinnamon blueberry pancake. It feels like sucking pineapple seeds whilst shitting in the cat’s box. In our pamphlet, it’s their most mighty shimmy-shammy yet, guaranteed to keep the yibber-yabber off the jim-jaw.

Our friend Ann Arbor Dude, proprietor of Ann Arbor Dude Records in Ann Arbor, recommends the new LP-R from Foetus Fucker, Big Fat Cock On My Lawn (Salad Tosser): “Holy Jesus babysitter-fucking Christ on a coathanger! This shit is off parole! It’s almost too gross to think about without making fifth-grade girl noises! It’s like a fleet of palmetto bugs devouring Jessica Rylan’s murdered corpse and puking it into your ear canals! Fuck! This will make you beat your dad with a tire axe! It’s that fucked!” Good on ya, Ann Arbor Dude. May your sofa be free of fleas and your trips to No Fun Fest, Arthur Fest and the Three Million Tongues Fest be without incident. Ed Sanders was right: If someone drops into a coma in a coffeeshop, the EMS always wants free coffee.

The new Edison cylinder from Japants, Two Hundred Bucks And Three Kidneystones (O’Toolkit) is already the puffiest hair-fire on this page of the Mayan calendar. The flexi-disc version, coming out next year in the Hague and for sale at the merch table at No Fun Fest 2011, will only pin the squelch-meter that much harder. Unshackle the tackle, Christmas. Gato blanco!

By Emerson Dameron

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