The Roar Of The Greasepaint, The Stank Of The Crowd

The Roar of the Greasepaint, the Stank of the Crowd
Primus Antipop

by Don Allred
December 1 - 7, 1999 Issue 48

Primus
Antipop
Interscope

Primus's guest-star-studded new Antipop blows like a prehistoric can of
rotted whalemeat on Y2K Night—and we can only hope the latter's as much of an
anticlimax as the former. Hee. That's as much of a laugh as I can get from kicking
something so soggy. If only it were spectack-u-lar-ly bad! Then surely Primus
masturmind Les Claypool's true spirit would arise from cheesy sleep,
delightedly snickering into my headphones, "Yer right Buddeh this ain't sh-h-h-"
He should know. Coming, as he says, "from a long line of automobile
mechanics," Les made it through East Bay grease by rigging up the ol' Primusmobile with
post-Creedence metabilly engine-uity—also with customized parts stripped from
funkmetal Zeppelin, Rush, King Crimson, PiL, Devo, and cryptic critters the
Residents. Primus fans tend to be fans of these bands from misc. fringes (North
England's Planty and Bonzo were hicks, like Shreveport's Residents; Rush are
Canadians), these brainiac (some would say "Rain Man") bands, born lurchingly
Different, defiantly determined to succeed by staying that way. As if they had
any choice, most of 'em (as bands, not sessionists).

Surely, San Francisco Les has seen plenty Difference go just plain (or
gloriously, or just barely) wrong. So, most typically, perhaps pre-emptively (knock
on wood), he twangs his prominent proboscis in a song of glee—wonder,
even—having sighted yet another instance of mankind's genius for sheer perversity:
"Whut fools these mortals be!"

That's when his bass erupts, and words spin like pills, Bob Wills, laundry,
"notes" in both senses (Dylan's done this too): dissolving into musical punch
lines, spilling your point-of-view toward the eyeholes of Les's characters'
masks. No detachment aloud—but yes, "characters" are a must, and flannelled
flying feats of instrumental technique. These don't seem to keep anybody out of the
moshpit. Also, there's something reassuring about the music's overt
theatricality, the percentage of staged fungi in that glow there.

It's not that the words don't matter. It's just—they're riding breath, so
(hopefully) they're capable of going pretty far in, and out. On the Residents
tribute album Eyesore, Primus cover "Hello Skinny," about a guy who's so sinister
he sells somebody a "Hello, Dolly" record he found in the hall (maybe even
right after Jim Morrison walked on down it!). This is a wonderful joke on (and
by) the Residents. As Primus perform it, you can feel both bands literally
lighten up, releasing Skinny (and themselves) from the clutches of reflexive
Anti-Materialism, to rise like a kite string brushing the Sublime Ridiculous.

Nevertheless, the Residents eventually resorted to hitting us over the head
with a (very expensive-sounding) orchestra, to underline their message ("Life
sucks, and then you die—s-l-o-w-w-l-l-y"). But where Primus have always shared
some of the Residents' inbred knee-jerkiness, they've also always had an
oblique emotional generosity (start with Pork Soda and their devilishly empathetic
covers EPs Miscellaneous Debris and Rhinoplasty, then the goose-pimply
kidstuff on Tales From the Punchbowl), shared with youngsters like Korn.

Now, on Antipop, Primus's characters have devolved into bad caricatures;
messages have emerged like hernias. No orchestra, but the aforementioned guest
stars aid and abet the same-type dirty work (and ignorance of the law is no
excuse). H-m-m . . . this mean-spiritedness is kinda catchy (pops fingers). I think
even I can play this lick (picks up hose).

Curse you, Tom Morello of Rage (whop!), for injecting irrelevant John Henry
guitar into a bassment Workers' Paradise. Bunions on thy onions, Limp Bizkit's
Fred Durst (whipp!), for producing the "mock"-overwrought antidrug "Laquer
Head." Mangy animal crackers in thy soup, South Park co-creator Matt Stone, for
even touching (fwap!) "Natural Joe," about "one mellow-ass sunuvabitch" who
supports gun control, so natcherly goes out and kills some folks (followed by
gunshots and gurgles, just in case we don't get the Point).

A plague on both yer Metallickin' James Hetfield and ex-Faith No More Jim
Martin, for luring me into "Eclectic Electric." Primo bait: J. and J.'s angelic
sword-chords. Beyond which we're detained by Lester's sob story about being
"blinded by the Sun"—egged on by his dangerously Utopian parents.

Thy ludicrous vocals have finally met their match, have they not, Tom Waits,
in "Coattails of a Dead Man" (calls dog)? Aye, 'tis a justice in that, at
least (dog urinates on Waits). There remain approximately 18 good minutes on this
63-minute disc—enough to fatten that Primus compilation tape you should be
making, if you've got any fresh stomp left in you.

But does Primus? Morello's contributions are sufficiently twitchy, for
instance, but remind me of my high school biology teacher making dead frog legs
jump, by inserting electricity. Thanks, Tom. Antipop's excellent bonus track,
featuring Kirk "Also of Metallica" Hammett and ex-Death Angel Mark Osegueda, is
actually a rerun of Primus's decade-old "Heckler," its protagonist once again
heckled by El Claypool, con gusto. The one new champeen is "Ballad of
Bodacious," regarding a "bo-vine celebre-tee," trotted out once a year to be goaded by
moe-rawns craving the most dangerous ride ever (dog flees). The track lurches,
sways, strains at its reins, 'til it almost undulates, sleek and unmeek. Not
unlike the finest work songs of Morello's crew, but this one's all Primus
(think it might be sorter . . . symbolic, of a tireless semi-star, trying too hard
to keep up with his ever-rising fellow travelers [Family Values indeed]? Nah,
that doesn't quite fit the song. Pay attention, dang it!).

.