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A sense of humor never hurts when there's no real central theme to spoil with it. Beginning with the plainly announced statement "I am the ruler of the world, ordained by God. I am George W. Bush," this razor-sharp EP never lets go, pounding the hell out of my ears with mortar shell beats and rapid-fire melody wiggles. It isn't exactly clear if 1-Speed Bike is trying be funny or just have a good time, but the results of his dashing drum programming and science-experiment melodies are zany and comic tunes.
"Bleeched Bumbaclot Warning" starts off as a series of extra hyper snare rolls and bubbling flasks before turning into an odd commercial for hallucinogenics use by slapping a strangely slow guitar and keyboard melody over the now spasmodic rhythm section. I somehow get images of small animals (in cartoon form) bouncing about my head while travelling through hyperspace in an episode of some really cheesey sci-fi flick. The Hrsta remixes included (as well as the second half of the CD) are a little less out-of-control and feature more droned out samples drooling under obviously live samples of drum performance. This isn't the most innovative thing in the world, but there's something humorous and oddly exaggerated about the whole disc and that only lends to its appeal. It would've been nice to hear some more comic commentary on the disc after laughing my ass off at the material on the first track, but the chill-out section at the end is a nice relief and contrast against the all out attack of the first half of the EP. I was surprised to hear this coming from GY!BE's drummer and quite frankly I was happy to hear such a drastic difference. Sure, there's a political message here, but how seriously should that be taken when "I am handsome like Donald Rumsfeld" and "I am believer in truth and justice like motherfuckin' Tony Blair" are uttered just about a minute apart?
- There's an Oil Tanker Named Condoleeza Rice
- Bleeched Bumbaclot Warning
- The Ground Is Really Unforgiving When You Fall (Hrsta Remix)
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Both 2000's eponymous double album and 2001's New Electric Music have shown New Zealand's famed noise rockers moving (perhaps lurching) towards a more sparse, more seductive sound. Though any Dead C record will inevitably contain enough variety to postpone classification and prolong interest, the group's post-millenium output so far has predicted a steady increase in song quality, as well as more broad, stylistic refinement. The shoddily-produced, clattering heap of guitar, bass, and drum noise that was the signature sound of early Dead C has taken a thinner, more bottom-heavy, and more atmospheric form as of late, with concentration on complex textures and assemblage rather than riff torture.Starlight Furniture Co.
Surely none of this has been enough to alienate fans of the earlier, junkier, rockist style; the Dead C seems a band that consistently skirts expectation, only to receive little or no acknowledgement for their efforts. They've never quite escaped the stigma that reduces them to lo-fi, feedback-happy sludge rockers, and their fans strangely adore them for it. Do true appreciators of the Dead C occupy some hidden corner of the elitist camp, brandishing their treasure like some jagged crystal? I like to think so, though The Damned, like any new release by the band, has me confused. Half of the disc's six tracks are of the same ill-produced, tripping-over-itself, psych/noise thump that the C have mined for years. Elsewhere, songs like the aptly-named "Atmosphere," feature the group at their most hypnotic, riding waves of distortion, amp buzz, and shuddering guitar screech, patient in its development and highly effective. The louder, busier tracks do not work as well, often losing focus and drifting aimlessly, but on tracks like "The Provider," the band proves it can create thoroughly gripping, even unique music from the most derivative of forms. With each new release, the Dead C identity inches closer to what I've suspected they were all along, more of an institution than a unit bound by rules of time or progress. The group plays as if preaching, by compulsion. They may not be believed, but they will be heard. They may repeat and contradict, but the germ of what they are doing is always audible. Epic four-track noise jams to play on repeat: this is why I listen. 
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