MRS. CAKEHEAD "The Stuff+"
Fiend | CD 030 | CD-R
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It's hard to believe that this release is brought to you (and forced upon me) by the same man of letters who masterminded the excellent, and-it-gets-better-the-more-you-slooshy, Straight Outta Rampton CD [1] along with two other personal faves of mine from an earlier cassette entitled 'You Don't Need A Pickaxe To Collect Ghoul Soil' [2], those being thee ultra Lo-Fi song 'Cup Cakes' (twice a week) and a cover of Soft Cell's bugger - fuck-Mark-Almond's-weary-sagging-aging-ass hit 'Say Hallo, wave Goodbye'. I'll tell you how this particular fucking nightmare began...
OK, I was on the receiving end of an unsolicited flyer for Mrs. Cakehead's 'The Stuffy+ CD-R, flipped the pretty full-colored handbill over and a note in blue biro reads "Gary - can't imagine you wouldn't enjoy this CD - it's very funny and stupid - buy me!" Note the spelling of 'buy' instead of 'by'... without doubt some sort of Freudian "I dreamed of trees being chopped down and therefore I feel that I should have been born a bitch in the first place" slip. Also note the use of other acutely telling (i.e. dead give-away) words... 'enjoy' (no), 'very' (not), 'funny' (is it?) and 'stupid' (yep, I'll go along with that). Then, that same doom-laden day, 7 December 2001, I get sperm drenched with a wad of no less than ten CD-R's from Paul Harrison of 'Fiend' "... for review or just look at 'em as a gift - a Christmas present!!" Review? Christmas? FUCK that!! Fuuuck that!!! First things first... I frantically wrap all the ten CD-R's and their manky old press release sheets in fresh odour - eaters, size XL, leave the little bundle to marinate over night, unwrap, roll each piece of footprint shaped stench collector into a thin as possible tube and force one up each nostral. Alas! Four hours later, with nose a' bleeding profusely, still not one whiff of Candi-honey-bunny. Shit! Shit, shite and fucking shit!! Perhaps it would be easier to simply just ask, politely... school panties, white panties, soiled panties... Y-front panties... by the canal, by the canal...
Er... anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, one of these (now forensically tested) Fiend CD-R's just 'happened' to be the aforementioned Mrs. Cakehead 'The Stuff+' (Miss. Cuntface 'The Muff' if you ask me... but who am I to fuck with other folks work? God. I'm God, that's who... I'm God! And you're nothing!! Nothing (!!!) CD-R and so, expecting to be soniclly charmed, phalliclly wined and anally dined, by the malbabe himself, I slung Fes Parker [3] out and threw Mrs. Cakehead into the 190x150x3 mm slim solid metal sliding disc tray of my trusty 'big one'. Starts off promising enough with a 15 second Whitehousian generic live action do-any-song-you-want-to-it-so-long-as-it-scrambles-the-audience's-brains-to-tissue-pulp (in my hand! And the next one's you! Mary had a little lamb, ahh, sweet) intro, followed by an even shorter Nurse with Wound / Throbbing Gristle 'horn' section. And that, for me, is about it. What follows for the next 44 minutes is some sort of, I don't know, Dub'n'bass northern accented (I live in the Saurf remember... that's why I'm a poof and a cunt and a fuck and a shit and a tit and a turd and a prick and a cock - sucking sperm swallowing, shite wallowing, vomit encrusted jam rag. Oh, and I like little girls, 14, 15, 12 years old... the ones who have the power to bring the dead man back to life! You like them too. Some of you don't. But, some of you do. And the ones that do pretend that they don't. Because it's thought crime. And they want to be safe. Be part of the mindless seething mass of baseball capped trainer wearing shaven headed GAP fronted, NIKE tick backed, UMBRO watched, Jennifer filthy stinking trash cunt Lopez CD buying, football worshipping life devoting moronic furrowed brow imbecilic idiots... praise Allah! Hail Al-Qaeda!! No fucking wonder people fly planes into buildings!!! No fucking wonder!!! What do you fucking expect?!?! Peace on earth?! Fucking peace on fucking stinking cunting mother fucking earth??!!??!! I don't think so. I don't think so... man. Echo vocals obviously sung by the same 'Stan Presley' (surely this isn't S.M himself crooning? Nah!) whose 'Glitter Dust All Stars' topped the 'White Stained Covers' [4] cassette compilation (a "Shoddy item..." I have it written by the hand of the Master himself) sold only with the 'Still Going Strong' Whitehouse artical collection publication... What ever did happen to the late Impulse/not as late (?) Jara Disks then?
And there it stays, not only the hated (Chinee) reggae, dub, bass creeping death racket but also the various permutations S.M. manages to squeeze out of it, like a human cow being milked in one of those lactomania videos. The 'press release' does refer to this work as "earlier" Cakehead (fuckhead) material but, like... (how early? Carrycot early, playpen early, infants early, 1st and 2nd year juniors early?) Editors of zines please note:
If you prefer a short version of this piece to publish (for your pathetic and cowardly excuse of a reviews section) then... "Ranks alongside the pointless early 1990's 'Dread Zeppelin' (joke's over as soon as it's begun) Led Zep reggae cover hand as mildly amusing up to about halt way through the first song" would pretty much sum it up. For me. That's not to say that you, sad reader, wouldn't like it. Perhaps it's a question of the Naurf/Saurf divide regarding humour, you know, of what does and does not tickle, and being an already gone on about tarty unkempt southern human sperm bucket disgrace of an excuse for a human being myself, I just don't find it very amusing. I'll go further, because guys love girls who go further... I'll even say it's fucking irritating. You know, if you thought the Come LP 'I'm Jack' [5] was an exasperating listen but were "brave" enough to 'take it' in one sitting, then try this! Sorry S.M... I still want you, and my love gates will be forever well-greased for your endless easy access but, darling, I just cannot bring myself to swallow this particular over-ripe load of yours that you must have been reserving (for reasons known only to yourself) for quite some time.
Please keep it tasty. Please keep it fresh.
What else? Oh yes, I want to fuck Charlotte Church. Eyes Wide Shut [6]. Alice Harford's 'Force The Truth' reasoning. Not because I fancy her that much (too old looking) but... but... that T.V. award show, that over-done make-up, that hair, that split to the almost hip dress... What do you expect me to say?! What do they expect me to think?! Mrs Newman's gone! Little darling angel too!! What do you want me to believe?!! What lame justification do they want me to conjure up this fucking time?!! I only wanted the truth! Is that too much to ask for?!!! Is it too much to fucking ask for?!!! And, Master, I'm paying for it! I'm fucking paying for it!! Fucking paying to see it spotlit!!!
Those fucking cunting liars! Those fucking cunting cheats!
If you really want to piss off the neighbours and fuck-up their lives, forget power electronics and noise music...buy (by) Mrs. Cakeheads 'The Stuff+'
Did you 'ave a nice Christmas then? Quiet?
Notes
Ceramic Hobs - Straight Outta Rampton CD 2001 PUMF 350
Blood Klat (In Spume Bummer) - You Don't Need A Pickaxe To Collect Ghoul Soil Cassette 1995 PUMF 238
Fes Parker is excellent! Check out his outstanding Combined Possibilities CD 199? TC008 Thrill City
Various Artists - White Stained Covers Cassette 1993 Sold only with Still Going Strong book. Impulse Publications, Edited and compiled by Mark Crumby... long, long, long sold out, out of print, whatever.
Come - I'm Jack LP 1981 WDC881012 (Available on Anthology 2 CD SLCD021 Susan Lawly)
Eyes wide Shut - Director: Stanley Kubrick 1999 (Check out chapter 6 on the scene index of the DVD ..."Those two Girls"...; "I'm sure of you" )
Error: The song Cup Cakes is to be found on the Ceramic Hobs cassette "Disturbing 'Boxing Ring' Fantasies" (PUMF 133) and not on "You Don't Need A Pickaxe To Collect Ghoul Soil" as stated in my review. Hmmm, not so godley after all then.
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