Somewhere, hidden behind the radio noise and the hot gas, beyond the cold black curtain of space, one unfathomably huge spiral of stars is falling into another, even more mind-meltingly enormous wheel of heaven in a process known as galactic cannibalism.
And somewhere, underneath the garbage on the radio and punk demagoguery and hot air, beyond the cold blue sheets of the Michigan and Erie, is a speck of a band called Galactic Cannibal.
And, man, can they rock.
"Goddamn, raise your fucking fist, what you waiting for?" - the first line erupts from the stereo like a pissed-off comet, and our man Peter Woods is yelling with all the spit and bile he can muster. I'm really not sure how he does it without his throat rolling up and turning out like a bloody sleeve. But when Woods tells you to "raise your fucking fist"/"break a fucking sweat"/"break a fucking bone," or orders "every one of you up against the wall," you'd better goddamn listen.
There's no mistaking these lyrics, and the delivery is straightforward and urgent, to be sure. But we're not dealing with some kind of fascist drill sergeant. Instead, I get the impression that Woods and the boys are playing with a purpose, and if you're not dancing or punching or bleeding, you're just getting in the way.
I'll be honest with you: on the first listen, I was digging the gritty, anthemic pop-punk, but I thought the vocals were a joke. I heard the weird, yelling growl on "Hate Everything More" and thought it was a one-track goof-off to set the tone and then - maybe - if this Cookie Monster-GG Allin had any voice left, he'd throw in another chorus. But it kept going. Disgusting, I thought. Ridiculous. Every track, from minute one to the final shout almost 25 minutes later, it kept going.
I read something once, an article or a book having nothing to do with punk rock or music or giant cosmic maws, in which the author describes one of his teenaged sexual conquests. It begins with a crush on this impossible cheerleader type, far beyond his sexual purview, and ends happily with the two on a bed, ready to get busy. It's a dream come true until they strip and he sees her naked for the first time: there is absolutely nothing out of place on this girl - not a mole or crooked toe or roll of chub to orient himself on this unrumpled porcelain sheet of a body. Maybe this is perfection, he thinks, but it's also unmemorable and unreal. So he stands up, gets dressed, and walks away.
This record is the opposite of that. The vocals are a big, sexy love handle. No. They're a missing chin; a jutting femur, broken and set at a 90 degree angle; a crop of exquisitely memorable weeping sores on the back, sticking to the pus-slick sheets while we're shirtless and heaving.
Otherwise, everything is perfect.
That's the difference between Galactic Cannibal and any of the hundreds of bands, punk and otherwise, who have rolled into one ear, then out the other. I can't tell you the names of those bands because they were perfectly executed - and perfectly forgettable. But I know who the Dillinger Four are, and Off With Their Heads, and Big Business. Galactic Cannibal are no Violent Femmes, but who can say with a straight face that Gordon Gano pipes forth with the dulcet tones of the heavenly host? Or that Frank Black's alternating shriek and falsetto is the trumpet of an angel made manifest?
The bands I've just mentioned would be so-so acts but for the ridiculous vocals that suck onto the brain like a lamprey and don't let go. Consequently, these are the bands I've chosen to spend many, many nights with.
I must have listened to this album 20 times by now, start to finish. I cranked out nearly the entire Punk Rock Alphabet with We're Fucked cranked up.
Goddamn lamprey bands.
And somewhere, underneath the garbage on the radio and punk demagoguery and hot air, beyond the cold blue sheets of the Michigan and Erie, is a speck of a band called Galactic Cannibal.
And, man, can they rock.
"Goddamn, raise your fucking fist, what you waiting for?" - the first line erupts from the stereo like a pissed-off comet, and our man Peter Woods is yelling with all the spit and bile he can muster. I'm really not sure how he does it without his throat rolling up and turning out like a bloody sleeve. But when Woods tells you to "raise your fucking fist"/"break a fucking sweat"/"break a fucking bone," or orders "every one of you up against the wall," you'd better goddamn listen.
There's no mistaking these lyrics, and the delivery is straightforward and urgent, to be sure. But we're not dealing with some kind of fascist drill sergeant. Instead, I get the impression that Woods and the boys are playing with a purpose, and if you're not dancing or punching or bleeding, you're just getting in the way.
I'll be honest with you: on the first listen, I was digging the gritty, anthemic pop-punk, but I thought the vocals were a joke. I heard the weird, yelling growl on "Hate Everything More" and thought it was a one-track goof-off to set the tone and then - maybe - if this Cookie Monster-GG Allin had any voice left, he'd throw in another chorus. But it kept going. Disgusting, I thought. Ridiculous. Every track, from minute one to the final shout almost 25 minutes later, it kept going.
I read something once, an article or a book having nothing to do with punk rock or music or giant cosmic maws, in which the author describes one of his teenaged sexual conquests. It begins with a crush on this impossible cheerleader type, far beyond his sexual purview, and ends happily with the two on a bed, ready to get busy. It's a dream come true until they strip and he sees her naked for the first time: there is absolutely nothing out of place on this girl - not a mole or crooked toe or roll of chub to orient himself on this unrumpled porcelain sheet of a body. Maybe this is perfection, he thinks, but it's also unmemorable and unreal. So he stands up, gets dressed, and walks away.
This record is the opposite of that. The vocals are a big, sexy love handle. No. They're a missing chin; a jutting femur, broken and set at a 90 degree angle; a crop of exquisitely memorable weeping sores on the back, sticking to the pus-slick sheets while we're shirtless and heaving.
Otherwise, everything is perfect.
That's the difference between Galactic Cannibal and any of the hundreds of bands, punk and otherwise, who have rolled into one ear, then out the other. I can't tell you the names of those bands because they were perfectly executed - and perfectly forgettable. But I know who the Dillinger Four are, and Off With Their Heads, and Big Business. Galactic Cannibal are no Violent Femmes, but who can say with a straight face that Gordon Gano pipes forth with the dulcet tones of the heavenly host? Or that Frank Black's alternating shriek and falsetto is the trumpet of an angel made manifest?
The bands I've just mentioned would be so-so acts but for the ridiculous vocals that suck onto the brain like a lamprey and don't let go. Consequently, these are the bands I've chosen to spend many, many nights with.
I must have listened to this album 20 times by now, start to finish. I cranked out nearly the entire Punk Rock Alphabet with We're Fucked cranked up.
Goddamn lamprey bands.
* * *
I'm sure these guys blow up every show they play in the Midwest with the force of 10,000 suns, but they're not getting much play here in Buffalo. Such is the life of a D.I.Y. punk band. Sometimes, though, two infinitely small particles fire out of the black barrel of the universe and end up on opposite ends of reality, and, for no discernible reason, they share some uncanny connection. When one of these neutrinos stands still, so does the other; when one vibrates, the other does too.
You'll see a handsome fellow in the band's press photo wearing a Water Torture shirt. Water Torture is a crazy, two-bassist, one-drummer grind act in Buffalo. I wouldn't have picked this record out of a list of releases if it weren't for that photo. I wouldn't have found a seriously badass record, and right now I might be telling you about the new Goo Goo Dolls or the Man of Steel soundtrack. But anyone repping a band as obscure and intensely local as Water Torture knows the value of happy coincidence, and the value of representing the things you believe in, no matter how weird or ugly. Us specks have got to stick together.
Here's to spooky action at a distance. Here's to Galactic Cannibal.
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