March Of Fuzz: Best Of And Rarities...
[a]Mudhoney[/a]'s genius, like that of [B]The Ramones[/B] and the [a]Sex Pistols[/a], is utterly one-dimensional...
Mudhoney's genius, like that of The Ramones and the Sex Pistols, is utterly one-dimensional. What little innovation there is (like the funereal organ overlaid jazz-wankery of 'Generation Genocide') can be successfully missed if you blink hard enough. 'Cos Mudhoney were the last garage band. OK, so it might have been a two-car garage with electronically operated doors but its walls were smeared with loathsome mould and satanic graffiti and boasted a human-fat candle-illuminated serial-killer shrine in each rat-dung stinking corner. Far out.
'March Of Fuzz' is a cruddy record. It stinks. It's a headache on shaking legs. So the next time your little sister and her annoying friends distract you from your freebase'n'vivisection experiments by playing Steps at ear-shredding volume in the room next door, spike their Sunny D with Jacob's Ladder-style experimental combat acid, Hutchence yourself to the point of spurting, stick this record on, shout her name out, stick an orange in your gob and then quickly hang yourself in the guts of her pet puppy, Frank. That'll teach her.
"Touch me I'm sick!" sing Mudhoney. And then they cleverly change it to, "Fuck me I'm thick!". Arf! Which says it all, really.
This record is too much. Literally.
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