Finally, after much wailing and gnashing of teeth, a bunch of new (or that were new 3 weeks ago when they were posted) CDs have finally been delivered. This does not let my local mail delivery monkeys off the hook though, as two of the packages have been opened so that someone could have a bit of a rummage before deciding that the contents were maybe not for them. Shame that this doesn’t always seem to be the case.
And now that they’ve arrived, they’re sitting there unplayed. Not sure if it’s because I’m all new-musicked-out at the moment, or my brain is still partially shut down from Christmas illness/partial excess, or that I’m just plum knackered today, but I’m just not into having whole new musical experiences piped into the consciousness / discovering that I’ve spent a bunch of money on something I don’t like. I shall leave that fun little voyage of aural discovery until tomorrow. Until then, I’ll be spending this evening in the company of something fun and mad, and whose approach to knocking out a good tune seems to be fully in sync with the mess of tubes and wires that comprise my brain at the mo.
I’m not exactly sure how this album came into my possession. At the time of purchase (whenever that was, I’m guessing about 1991-ish) I don’t recall much of a buzz around my local record shops and I had never heard anything by them, so I could have walked past this and never thought of it again. And I wish I knew why I decided to pass over the other delights in the shop at the time to pick this, if only for anecdotal reasons – was it one of those rare “I must have that!” moments of visionary clarity? Was it a “oops, shop closing in a min, buy anything!” gamble which rarely pays off (there’s some rubbish in here thanks to that panicky form of commerce). In all honesty, I suspect it was because the CD comes with a whole other album (their previous Things I Hate To Admit) as a bonus. And I’m always one for a bargain.
Victims Family are like a very weird distillation of all things San Francisco in the late 80s, early ’90s at the madder end of the wedge. Vocalist and guitarist Ralph Spight’s stream-of-consciousness words and somewhat manic delivery remind me of Jello Biafra (someone who he would later work with as part of the Guantanamo School of Medicine), and the quirky/jazzy/punk style of their music seems to have been an influence on peers and later bands such as Faith No More, Primus and Mr Bungle. Produced by Nomeansno member John Wright, this third album lets the trio run all around the place like lunatics, but also provides direction and a more singular purpose than its handily-included predecessor. The lyrics tend to revolve around the grotesquely suburban, pointing out the ills and attitudes of an average life (in particular Supermarket Nightmare which lists all the awful things that we buy and consume on a daily basis) with occasional flights of fancy into the dreamscapes of Mary’s New Dress and personal irritations such as Luv Letter, Say It How You Mean It and Polka.
Performance-wise, it’s breathless stuff – tight as the proverbial gnat’s chuff, complicated rhythms and riffs are performed usually at breakneck speed with great precision but also with a goofy charm that shows that although each member of the Family is incredibly proficient in what they can do, they are also imaginative and mischievous enogh to not take that side of things too seriously. This is one band that I am somewhat regretful about having never seen live back in the day (although they’re still going, so maybe one day…) as this is one of those great records that sounds just as if they’re on stage having the time of their lives (borne out by their 1994 live release 4 Great Thrash Songs, which sounds brilliant). It’s not something I listen to all the time anymore, but it’s welcome to these ears whenever it passes through and its innate sense of fun isn’t diminished with time, just as I hope mine isn’t.
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