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And so Costes begins his confrontational diatribe with "Jacques Cousteau Tells the Truth to the Nation" — a vituperative obloquy aimed at America. Narrating from a detached third person point of view, Costes informs us that foreigners predominate the arts in America, and that "in the music, those fucking niggers rule! Look at this Michael Jackson shit all the time on the TV!" Then he goes on to inform us that Costes dominates the music business in America, and that he must be stopped. His heavy French accent, painfully broken English, poor grammar and unhinged psychotic demeanor add up to one of the most amusingly offensive albums I've ever had the displeasure to hear.
I cannot enjoy Hung By The Dick; enjoying these willfully bigoted soliloquies is beside the point. The value of Costes' work — if indeed there is any — lies entirely in the fascination of exploring the hefty collection of mental disorders which are vomited up like poisonous bile for the listener to dissect and analyze. He is very obviously preoccupied by sex, and in particular, the size of his genitals. On "A Dick in the Brain," he gives his audience a peek at his bizarre thought processes: "The dick moves in my brain...it fucks my brain. That's why I'm so weird," and later: "OK cunts, OK assholes, you've got my Costes Cock, big, heavy, full of sperm just for you. I'm going to fuck you until you die." His delivery is Antonin Artaud meets G.G. Allin meets Boyd Rice. Throughout the album, Costes behaves like an insane primate, jumping up and down, feverishly masturbating and throwing his feces at anyone within range. He grasps desperately at anything that he thinks might offend the listener. Racism, scatology, homophophia, homoeroticism, Nazi sentiments, misogyny and violent, megalomaniacal attitudes are all fair game for this particular round of aggression and insults: "Please let me kill this black guy...I know an evil black woman. She fucks me every night with her big black dick."
The lyric sheet is scrawled with handwritten messages that display Costes' complex inner schizoid: "I'm sorry to sing bad things. I don't know why I do that." The liner notes are adorned with pornographic pictures of Costes himself, half-naked and masturbating, attempting to spew his semen into his own open mouth. Also adorning the sleeve artwork are childlike illustrations showing men being strangled by their own penises. There is very little music accompanying his brutal multitracked screams — mostly just strangled Casio keyboards, grating noise, or the sounds of a constipated Costes struggling to push out a bowel movement. When he finally pinches a loaf he screams: "MY GOD! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! MY SHIT IS YELLOW! WHY IS IT YELLOW?"
This is as pure a specimen of true insanity as one is likely to hear. It's very difficult for me to figure out how much of Hung By The Dick is a sick joke, and how much may actually be genuine. Looking at Costes' hilariously offensive website [http://costes.org] does not make matters any clearer. Either way, depending upon the listener's sensibilities, this album is either an abomination of Biblical proportions, or just a sometimes frightening, often wickedly funny and always provocative collection of aggravated vocal assaults.
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Austin's own Knife in the Water craft an interesting mix of a variety of musical styles into haunting, purposeful dirges that can scourge the light into non-existence. One of the first signings to the new Aspyr label — an off-shoot of the popular software company — the band is re-releasing all their previous recordings along with this album of new material. This is not the same music that was voted into Spin's Top 20 of 2000, but it is the same band all grown up and grown into their relationship.
Although some members have left and been replaced, it is the same core of Aaron Blount, Laura Krause and Bill McCullough that explores the deep, and they've come back with some very interesting mope rock. The country influence that is omnipresent is toned down here, and the more art rock dwindlings are turned up, forming a lush and heavy canvas. At first, Cut the Cord is the album of their lives, with gorgeous interplay between Krause and Blount highlighting and driving the songs at the same time. McCullough's guitar work is never lost in these songs, often soaring above it. It's the flourishes that get in the way, causing the occasional bewildered expression on my face. Why the strange keyboard sound was needed on the otherwise perfect "Massacre," and why the necessity to cause "Golden Calf Highway" to dissolve into confused noise, I'll never know. It's choices like these that make the band trip all over themselves in the middle of a very elegant and smooth dance. The addition of two new tracks for the US release are a welcome surprise as they are both fantastic, with "Threads of Carbon in Watercolor" showing how the flourishes can be used to great success. Overall, a welcome return from a fine band who has obviously learned a lot about themselves, but work best when they keep it simple.
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