Some music is so transcendent that it can move you to another world when listening to it. ‘Fuckbook’ is a different kind of transcendent music. While it does move you when you listen to it, its destination certainly isn’t above and apart from the material world as the dictionary would have you believe. Oh no.
I, for one, am all in favour of embracing the sound of an album and diving into the atmosphere it creates though– so let’s make the trip. Turn the sound up, the heating off, close your eyes, and press play. If done right, ‘Fuckbook’ will transport you instantaneously to your garage. It’ll be as if you’re standing right next to that box of shit you meant to clear out two years ago, and you can almost touch the rolled up carpet you’re keeping (y’know, just in case you ever come across that same shape room again). You’ll be able to hear those screws rattling around in the box on the shelf as you wince and wonder if the neighbours are going to complain about the noise. Bliss, no?
This album is, essentially, a straight recording of a Condo Fucks (`or indeed a Yo La Tengo one for it is they!` - pseudonym Ed) band practice in which they play only covers. If you happen to like all of the original songs, then you can sit back and pretend they’re playing at your behest. If you don’t like the originals then maybe you’ll like the way Condo Fucks deal ‘em out – it’s raw, unadulterated, and there are some nice moments. The Flamin’ Groovies’ ‘Dog Meat’ is effortlessly brilliant, the instrumental of the Beach Boys’ ‘Shut Down Part 2’ is a cathartic burst of dirty surf, and I’m particularly fond of the guitar feedback solo in the Small Faces’ ‘What’cha Gonna Do About It’.
There are, however, two bad things about this album: the first is that the vocals are as legible as Stephen Hawking’s hand-writing; and the second is that when you’re supposed to be listening to and, perhaps, enjoying the music, you’ll probably be too busy thinking about that leaking radiator valve in the spare room and wondering what time, if at all, the tip opens on a Sunday. Really brings a whole new meaning to DIY punk.
Ash Carter (View Original Article)
