1994: Dirty Three - Sad and Dangerous
At one point or another in our lives, we’ve all known what it feels like to be possessed. By anger, by sex, by that elusive thing called “the moment.” And in the case of Sad & Dangerous, we see what it’s like to be possessed by the possessed -- in this case, an improvisational trio of guys hailing from the colony of criminals and armed with a distorted fiddle and one of the most effective rhythm sections in all of indie rock. Shit, did I just call Dirty Three “effective”? Let me correct myself with something more hyperbolic and appropriate. Urgent? Gorgeously aggressive? Anyway.
Music this immediate can’t be practiced, it simply demands to be played. It is “on the spot.” It is a spirit. It is a series of moods, strung together. And it is, in fact, very, very dirty. Gritty, covered in static, played by instruments that have been artfully damaged to sound less cookie-cutter, more unidentifiable-noise. The songs are imperfect. They go from completely frantic ("Short Break") to languid and meandering ("Kim’s Dirt"). At their best, they lull you in only to leave you pummeled by the hypnotic combination of beauty and violence ("Jim’s Dog"). They undoubtedly form a debut album -- a haphazard set of building blocks -- stacked fragilely, ready to knock and be knocked over; the forms not based on any precedent, and never to be repeated again.
If my words sound rushed or tacked together, there’s a reason. This isn’t thinking music, it’s feeling music. Any attempt to analyze songs like these is surely to leave someone in a conundrum. In fact, I find myself in a bit of one now. But just stating the “what is” of this case ignores the actual core of Sad and Dangerous -- that eerie feeling that you’ve become completely possessed by some uncontrollable force beyond yourself. If it feels a little scary, a little foreign, or a little overwhelming, if you feel a little uncomfortable or outside yourself, well then, I imagine it's done it’s job quite well.
1. Kim's Dirt
2. Killy Kundane
3. Jaguar
4. Devil in the Hole
5. Jim's Dog
6. Short Break
7. Turk Reprise
8. You Were a Bum Dream
9. Warren's Waltz
10. Turk
1997: Charles Gocher - Pint Sized Spartacus
Charles Gocher’s premature death in 2007 signaled the immediate demise of Sun City Girls, the end of the trio’s mercurial 20-odd year run through the world of Bollywood covers, graveyard improvisation, sex cults, and esoterica. After all, Gocher was a honorary Bishop -- an adopted brother of Alan and Sir Richard in all but law -- so the idea of continuing without him was unthinkable. He was more than a drummer and occasional vocalist; he was an irreplaceable part of the Sun City engine, a bespectacled, sharply-dressed man forcing the methodologies of poetry and visual art between the grooves of limited-edition vinyl records. The blood brothers have since continued their respective solo careers and toured in tribute to brother Gocher, stripping down the group’s core to acoustic normality and showing Gocher’s film work in the background -- again, it seems the man’s vision was always inaccessible and dedicated regardless of medium.
Pint Sized Spartacus is Gocher’s only solo outing. Released in 1997, a year after the Girls peaked with the double-double of 330,003 Crossdressers From Beyond the Rig Veda and Dante’s Disneyland Inferno, this unfortunately scarce record happily rests as a more personal extension of the latter, an ode to odd sounds, feverish journal writing, and a fetish for telling stories from beyond. Gocher’s spoken tales are set out like an extended radio play, not unlike the anonymous vignettes scattered around the songs on Sublime Frequencies compilations, backed by a range of musicians clinically weaving together free-improv and the lightest of jazz. What resulted from the sessions is an album of wonderful, fractured indulgence -- this is a work at the deepest end of the Sun City Girls catalogue, a terrifying prospect for the well-meaning but flawed individuals who dare not dig deeper than Torch of the Mystics. Words are whispered and shrieked inches from the listener’s ear; sometimes we’re presented with singing, though only rarely. Shadowed by impressively reserved instrumentation -- flickers, creaks, plucks, beats, drones -- Gocher is in his element amidst all this chaos, weaving anecdotes of organized and unorganized crime, poetic dirges, God, unpleasantness, geography, legends, and slavery. Themes eclectic for no other reason than being a welcome option, such is the Sun City Girls philosophy.
Writing shortly after Charles’ long battle with cancer was lost, Alan Bishop stated that he’d never encountered anyone properly qualified to judge Gocher. While I’m certainly in no position to change his perspective, this record’s rich and consistently vivid literary nature makes it a pleasure to write about, though admittedly in a way that largely dodges objectivity. Pint Sized Spartacus is an album to soak in, then, not one to analyze. Its stories impact osmotically, long after you’ve stopped listening. It is a monument to the nightmares of psychiatrists and potential biographers of the vocalist, a red rag to those who threaten even a decent level of understanding. Or perhaps, when all else is ignored, it’s simply a man ranting manically over weird noises.
This is not a difficult album; it is an impossible album. Such an admission is necessary in feeling any sort of joy at all. And while those familiar with the more celebrated Sun City Girls releases will fall into this place more comfortably, the manipulation of sound and language on Pint Sized Spartacus could only be understood fully in the mind of its creator. It’s perhaps fair to assume that even those closest to Gocher at the time could never grasp it all. Twenty listens in and I find myself more lost than when I began, trapped in a concrete labyrinth crafted by a man somewhere between a shriveled beatnik and a history teacher, the light dimming around me and the walls slowly closing in. This is a record for the jaded folk around us who’re tired of being able to understand everything they’re presented with, who long for the days of childlike wonder. Occasionally clawing at nothing but thin air is more satisfying, my friend, so don’t feel frustrated. Expectations of closure are to be disregarded at the door.
1. Fanfare
2. Prologue
3. Wanting Things
4. Prodamare
5. The Debate of One Splintered Soul
6. His Evil Twin Brother Within
7. Parting the Sea of Tranquility
8. Speak Easy and Forever Hold Your Piece
9. A Constructive Illusion
10. Johnny "the Brain" Torrio: Attorney at Law
11. Dissappearing in a Sea of Unbridled Personification
12. Hymn for Kali Ma
13. Sea of Samsara
14. The Sound of One Cross Walking
15. Flying on Scissored Wings
16. Crucified at the Crossroads Between Shovel and Sky
17. Angelo & Bessie
2004: On - Your Naked Ghost Comes Back at Night
I usually appreciate ambient music as an appetizer rather than a main course. Artists like Chicago's Colorlist, for example, make wonderful use of ambient textures in their succulent analogue and electronic weddings, but if you remove those textures from the sort of compositional frameworks found in most genres, you're left with a style that can easily slip into background-music territory. The ambient-electro act On succeed in some regards, but still fall into many of ambient music's typical trappings.
Your Naked Ghost Comes Back at Night is a collaboration between Chicago percussionist Steven Hess, French composer Sylvain Chauveau, and Norwegian producer Helge Stern, working here for the last time under his moniker Deathprod. Hess and Chauveau wrote and recorded the album using analogue equipment, then handed it off to Stern to remix. Stern's production work is commendable; he preserves a hushed tone through each composition, blurs the distinctions between where Hess ends and Chauveau begins, and textures each track with subtle electronic glitches. So acutely does Stern make his presence felt that I would have assumed this to be an entirely digital work if not for the press release. The dominance of Stern's mix might also contribute to a certain flatness that pervades the album. I imagine that some elements -- Hess' thundering percussion, Chauveau's prepared guitar sound effects -- might have shown more dynamic range in their original form.
As they are, these compositions evoke barren, wind-swept plains, the kind of place where you could hear distant echoes of crying in the night. Only the title track, with its trilling guitar motif (Or is it piano? The remixing renders some of the instrumentation ambiguous), betrays any hints of warmth. The stillness and invariance of each piece make even the most minuscule embellishment ring out as a shot, like the tiny pin-pricks of guitar noise amid the rumble and hum of “Erotique” or the percussive droplets that hammer down with increasing regularity throughout “In the Forest of the Night.” Only the longest tracks (“Façade” at 12 minutes and “The Lonesome Poetry of Mark Rothko” at 17) seem to completely wear out their welcome, exhausting their meager range and the listener's patience well before their runtime is complete.
My problems with Your Naked Ghost… are the problems that I have with ambient music in general: that for all of the latitude in instrumentation and approach the genre allows, the end products usually wind up sounding kind of the same. The sinusoidal rhythms lead to a somewhat predictable development and, quite bluntly, get boring. But if there's something that I can say for On (and probably for ambient artists in general), it's that they force you to be still and focus on the object in ways that our instant gratification generation is no longer used to. The rewards of Your Naked Ghost Comes Back at Night are of a peculiarly esoteric sort, but they are there for those with the patience to find them.
1. Your Naked Ghost Comes Back at Night and Flies Around My Bed
2. Erotique
3. Too Many Demons Still Haunt This Land
4. Oh Run Slowly
5. Façade
6. In the Forest of the Night
7. The Lonesome Poetry of Mark Rothko
2000: Songs: Ohia - Ghost Tropic
I don't know who it was or how it happened, but someone, some time ago, broke Jason Molina's heart. Listen to any of his records released under the now-retired Songs: Ohia moniker, and this fact becomes painfully and unmistakably clear. Molina makes no bones about the crushing sense of loss and longing that informs his songs; rather, he embraces it as his musical raison d'etre. With it, he builds songs up and breaks them down; he puts them together and, on Ghost Tropic, he blows them all apart.
Released in late 2000, it's difficult not to view the sparse, haunting Ghost Tropic as the centerpiece of a musical trilogy of sorts, beginning with the tough, resonant The Lioness (also released in 2000) and concluding with 2002's brilliant, gospel-informed Didn't It Rain. Easily the best three records of Molina's career thus far, taken together they form a heartbreaking anthology of love and loss like no other. Plenty musicians of our day have pontificated on the nature of that most pervasive and familiar of human quandaries, but few have done so with as much consistent gumption as Molina. And it is Ghost Tropic that holds the dubious distinction of being the bleakest of the bleak: while the cuts and bruises of Lioness were still fresh, raw -- painful but not yet insidious -- and the songs on Didn't It Rain carry a certain calm acceptance about them, Ghost Tropic finds Molina smack in the midst of a goddamn monster of a darkness.
The music on Ghost Tropic is scant, vaporous, barely there. I called it "sparse" above; really, that doesn't come close. Impatient listeners might initially write the album off as painfully slow, wearisome even -- and it is, at points. More often, though, its exactness only enhances the delicate, intensely crafted nature of the songs emerging from the belly of this beast. There is a peculiar sort of deconstruction at work here that informs the entirety of the record. "Lightning Risked It All" opens the album with a literal thud, a muted guitar providing a deliberate, stifled rhythm while a second guitar rings out some awkward harmonics, which someone -- Molina or guest Alasdair Roberts -- manipulates in real time by de- and re-tuning the instrument's strings. "It's not a generous world," Molina posits. "It is a separate world." The net effect is one of spooky isolation. It is no stretch to call Ghost Tropic Molina's most experimental recording, and in hindsight, it is an enlightening listen. While his newer work under the Magnolia Electric Co. moniker is far and large first-rate, that band's straightforward rock 'n' roll groove leaves little room for the sort of haunted atmospherics heard here.
Not only are these songs pared down musically, but lyrically, this is Molina's most terse offering to date. "I once had all the words/ I forgot all the words," he laments on the brutal, shuffling "The Body Burns Away." An uncharacteristically Latin-influenced rhythm guides the song through its chilling climax, in which Molina vigorously repeats the song's nihilistic title in an apparent attempt to convince himself of the futility of love and, well, everything else. The body burns away, and all that is left is the specter of loss; there is nothing concrete, no words at all. Later, on the calm, funereal "No Limit On The Words," it is simply "I will say nothing." If it isn't clear yet, I shall now enlighten you: this, pals, ain't music for the faint of spirit. Dark is one thing, but this is bitter and unyielding. It is music perhaps best understood in the context of a particularly dark and vicious winter or the dry, punishing heat of some harsh, unwelcoming desert.
All this is not to say that Ghost Tropic is an unpleasant listen. Its songs are inventive and actually very pretty, and beneath the hardened exterior of each slow-burner lies a subtle but definite tinge of hope and redemption. That theme would eventually be realized more tangibly on the aforementioned Didn't It Rain, with its buoyant opening line, "No matter how dark the storm gets overhead/ They say someone's watching from the calm at the edge." Here, it exists in amoebic form: in the resolutely indecipherable imagery of "Not Just A Ghost's Heart," with its equation of love to oceanic navigation ("Her curve's the whole coast"), and in the staid, desperate plea of "Work it out with me" in the marathon closer "Incantation."
But those moments of apparent optimism are few and far between on a record like Ghost Tropic. Even if you haven't heard it, you know the type. It is a relatively well-worn concept: the somber, self-loathing, "love-can-and-probably-will-kill-you" masterpiece. Neil Young's On The Beach comes to mind, as does Leonard Cohen's Songs Of Love And Hate (although those records possess an alleviatory dry humor largely missing from Ghost Tropic). Upon listening to any of these albums, some might wonder: why the need for such ostensibly aimless misery for the sake of music, for the sake of Art? Is this not just pain for pain's sake? Are Jason Molina and, by extension, all those who seek out and enjoy the bleakness of a record like Ghost Tropic nothing more than a herd of selfish, grief-seeking masochists? Well, maybe. But really, probably not. Put bluntly, and with an unavoidable degree of cliché, Molina expresses how we all feel from time to time. Forget smilin' on your brother and loving one another right now: this is music by, for, and about you and me. It is incredibly, unapologetically human, for better or for worse.
1. Lightning Risked It All
2. The Body Burned Away
3. No Limits on the Words
4. Ghost Tropic
5. Ocean's Nerves
6. Not Just a Ghost's Heart
7. Ghost Tropic
8. Incantation
1991: Phil Spector - Back To Mono (1958-1969)
Let’s get this out of he way: Phil Spector is a crazy motherfucker. He always was, too. Stories abound about the producer’s temper, from abusing then-wife Ronnie Spector (of The Ronettes) to pulling a gun on John Lennon during the ex-Beatles' Rock ‘n’ Roll sessions. Then, of course, there’s the recent trial in which he was indicted for killing actress Lana Clarkson. He appeared in court sporting a classy suit and the most amazing afro you’ll ever see. Crazy motherfucker.
But Phil Spector is also an artistic genius. That word gets thrown around a lot in music criticism, but Spector’s cultural influence can’t be overstated. His ear for arrangement was impeccable, and he used this ability to revolutionize pop music. Under his watch -- in concert and competition with The Beatles, of course -- teenage pop became a serious art form. The Ronettes, The Crystals, and Darlene Love became icons of adolescent melodrama, all to the strains of baritone saxophones, glockenspiels, and strings. Many musicians, including a young Bruce Springsteen, were listening.
Back To Mono, an out-of-print, spectacular box set, does its best to encapsulate Spector’s glory years. The results aren’t always perfect -- his cloying early work will make you cringe -- but hearing Spector’s artistic evolution makes his peaks all the more dizzying. As with most chronological box sets, Back To Mono’s middle portions (in this case, the end of Disc 1 through the beginning of Disc 3) are its best. Highlights come hard and fast: “Be My Baby,” “Then He Kissed Me,” “Da Doo Ron Ron,” “(Today I Met) The Boy I’m Gonna Marry.” Heartbreak has never sounded so wonderful.
The third disc is largely a portrait of the mid-to-late 60s. As America’s post-Kennedy cultural innocence was waning, Spector’s sound was changing -- bells and strings gave way to the rawness of Ike & Tina Turner’s “River Deep, Mountain High” and “I’ll Never Need More Than This.” Spector was barely keeping up with the times, but many of the resulting tracks were amazing.
A Christmas Gift For You, Spector’s 1963 Christmas record, comprises the entire fourth disc. For my money, it’s the best holiday pop album ever released, one that contains all the pain and pleasure of the Christmas season with the mixed emotions of Spector’s best teen symphonies. Its centerpiece, Darlene Love’s “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home),” is Spector in a glistening nutshell: aching for the joy at arm’s length, shining like a Christmas tree, and just out of reach.
Disc 1:
1. To Know Him Is to Love Him - Teddy Bears
2. Corrine, Corrina - Ray Peterson
3. Spanish Harlem - Ben E. King
4. Pretty Little Angel Eyes - Curtis Lee
5. Every Breath I Take - Gene Pitney
6. I Love How You Love Me - The Paris Sisters
7. Under the Moon of Love - Curtis Lee
8. There's No Other (Like My Baby) - The Crystals
9. Uptown - The Crystals
10. He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss) - The Crystals
11. He's a Rebel - The Crystals
12. Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah - Bob B. Soxx & the Blue Jeans
13. Puddin' N' Tain - Alley Cats
14. He's Sure the Boy I Love - The Crystals
15. Why Do Lovers Break Each Others Hearts? - Bob B. Soxx & the Blue Jeans
16. (Today I Met) The Boy I'm Gonna Marry - Darlene Love
17. Da Doo Ron Ron - The Crystals
18. Heartbreaker - The Crystals
19. Why Don't They Let Us Fall in Love – Veronica
20. Chapel of Love - Darlene Love
21. Not Too Young to Get Married - Bob B. Soxx & the Blue Jeans
22. Wait 'Til My Bobby Gets Home - Darlene Love
23. All Grown Up - The Crystals
Disc 2:
1. Be My Baby - The Ronettes
2. Then He Kissed Me - The Crystals
3. Fine, Fine Boy - Darlene Love
4. Baby I Love You - The Ronettes
5. I Wonder - The Ronettes
6. Girls Can Tell - The Crystals
7. Little Boy - The Crystals
8. Hold Me Tight - The Treasures
9. (The Best Part of) Breakin' Up - The Ronettes
10. Soldier Baby (Of Mine) - The Ronettes
11. Strange Love - Darlene Love
12. Stumble and Fall - Darlene Love
13. When I Saw You - The Ronettes
14. So Young – Veronica
15. Do I Love You? - The Ronettes
16. Keep on Dancing - The Ronettes
17. You Baby - The Ronettes
18. Woman in Love (With You) - The Ronettes
19. Walking in the Rain - The Ronettes
Disc 3:
1. You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin' - The Righteous Brothers
2. Born to Be Together - The Ronettes
3. Just Once in My Life - The Righteous Brothers
4. Unchained Melody - The Righteous Brothers
5. Is This What I Get for Loving You? - The Ronettes
6. Long Way to Be Happy - Darlene Love
7. (I Love You) For Sentimental Reasons - The Righteous Brothers
8. Ebb Tide - The Righteous Brothers
9. This Could Be the Night - Modern Folk Quartet
10. Paradise - The Ronettes
11. River Deep, Mountain High - Ike & Tina Turner
12. I'll Never Need More Than This - Ike & Tina Turner
13. Love Like Yours (Don't Come Knocking Everyday) - Ike & Tina Turner
14. Save the Last Dance for Me - Ike & Tina Turner
15. I Wish I Never Saw the Sunshine - The Ronettes
16. You Came, You Saw, You Conquered - The Ronettes
17. Black Pearl - Sonny Charles & The Checkmates, Ltd
18. Love Is All I Have to Give - The Checkmates
Disc 4:
1. White Christmas - Darlene Love
2. Frosty The Snowman - The Ronettes
3. The Bells of St. Mary - Bob B. Soxx and The Blue Jeans
4. Santa Claus is Coming to Town - The Crystals
5. Sleigh Ride - The Ronettes
6. Marshmallow World - Darlene Love
7. I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus - The Ronettes
8. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer - The Crystals
9. Winter Wonderland - Darlene Love
10. Parade of the Wooden Soldiers - The Crystals
11. Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) - Darlene Love
12. Here Comes Santa Claus - Bob B. Soxx and The Blue Jeans
13. Silent Night - Phil Spector and Artists
2009: The Jesus Lizard - Pure; Head; Goat; Liar; Down
In the often rarified world of noise rock, there are few acts as powerful or galvanizing as The Jesus Lizard. Combining the gut-wrenching ferocity of The Birthday Party with Led Zeppelin heaviness, and topping it all off with a twisted, occasionally juvenile sense of humor, The Jesus Lizard created some of the most terrifying sounds ever committed to tape without sacrificing a single iota of fist-pumping, stage-diving, in-your-face immediacy. Now, ten years after their dissolution, Touch and Go has given the band’s back catalogue a much-needed facelift.
As with many independent albums recorded in decades past, the original pressings sounded quiet by today’s standards. The remastering brings each wet slice of nastiness to its full, ear-shredding volume. Even more important than making the albums louder, the reissues shine a spotlight on Steve Albini’s production. Along with Surfer Rosa, Albini’s work with The Jesus Lizard has long been considered some of his finest engineering, and it’s never been easier to hear why. From the chittering locust-swarm of crashing cymbals that rises at the end of “Slave Ship,” to Yow’s gargling-piss-through-a-mouthful-of-wet-leaves tirade in “Starlet,” every detail is lovingly laid bare for the listener to admire. Each release comes with an assortment of singles, B-sides, and live cuts, some of which (like “Pop Song,” “Panic in Cicero,” and the “Boilermaker” demo) have not been previously collected.
Listening to these albums all at once, I got a powerful sense of how rapidly The Jesus Lizard developed in the five short years they were signed to Touch and Go. Just two years after the split of their Austin noise-punk band Scratch Acid, David Yow and bass player David Wm. Sims teamed up with guitarist Duane Dennison to release the Pure EP. It contains some of the most unhinged vocal work of Yow’s career. Whether he’s croaking obscene, inflectionless threats in the Ministry-esque “Blockbuster,” unleashing a torrent of harrowing shrieks in “Bloody Mary,” or squealing and snorting his way through “Rabid Pigs,” Yow makes clear that there isn’t another singer in the industry quite like him.
The band's decision to use a drum machine, as well as their association with Albini, is probably responsible for the Big Black comparisons that dogged them early on. But the addition of drummer Mac McNeily on their first full-length, Head, brought a living, organic touch to the music, and lent an even greater propulsive force to songs like “One Evening” and the album’s awe-inspiring centerpiece, “7 vs. 8.” One can hear echoes of Scratch Acid’s “Mary Had a Little Drug Problem” in Dennison’s grinding guitar tidal wave, but the pacing and dynamic control in "7 vs. 8" speaks of a maturity never quite attained by Yow and Sims’ earlier act.
It’s Goat, however, where The Jesus Lizard reaches the perfect balance between theatrical, nightmare-inducing noise and hard-hitting rock. Lurching, sub-rational eruptions like “Seasick” sit comfortably next to tighter, riff-oriented assaults like “Mouth Breather.” Moreover, the two approaches combine in ways only hinted at in previous releases. “Monkey Trick” is a shining jewel in The Jesus Lizard catalogue. The rhythm section takes center stage through much of its four-minute running time. Dennison wraps his shimmering, intermittent guitar figures around the edges of Sims’ portentous bass line and McNeily’s measured poundings. The tension builds towards a moment of sweet release as Dennison seizes the lead back from Sims with a shredding burst of noise followed by a series of staccato notes timed in unison with Yow’s wild shrieks.
Liar only continues Goat’s triumphant rampage. The band kicks the door in with songs like “Boilermaker” and “The Art of Self-Defense,” making room for the spry Texas punk of “Rope” and the brooding, epic “Zachariah,” both of which stand alone amid the band’s early work. Perhaps the highest point of the album is the single “Gladiator.” Yow snarls, keens, and hisses through every shift and contortion that Sims and Dennison can muster, and the lyrical juxtaposition of marital infidelity and gunplay only enhances the song’s oblique sense of foreboding -- an unshakeable feeling that something bad is going to happen.
From Pure to Liar, The Jesus Lizard had been on a steady upward climb; Down finds the band reaching a plateau. While Yow’s vocal performances remain captivating, he doesn’t push himself quite as far. His lyrics come across cranky more often than scary, and the humor -- typically ambiguous on previous releases -- is more overt (although even when Yow is being funny he says things like “I’m gonna cut little gill slits in the side of your neck and blow in 'em with a straw”). Down generally lacks the psychotic energy that characterized the band's prior work. Yet when viewed apart from its fore-bearers, the album still has plenty to offer. Fine moments like “Fly on the Wall,” “The Associate,” and “Destroy Before Reading” show that, though this beast may have mellowed, it hadn’t lost its teeth.
The Jesus Lizard had plenty of contemporaries in the early 90s who sought to reconcile their esoteric punk leanings with heavy metal’s big, dumb gut-punch, but few (if any) made music so simultaneously thrilling and threatening. If you’re discovering the band for the first time, then these reissues are a no-brainer (I’d recommend beginning with Liar or Goat). The improved sound quality and bonus tracks should make each disc attractive to longtime fans, though they’ll probably want to start upgrading gradually. In any case, one can only hope that the buzz surrounding these reissues and the band’s current reunion tour will introduce the scariest gods in Chicago’s rock pantheon to a whole new generation of young minds just waiting to be warped.
Pure:
1. Blockbuster
2. Bloody Mary
3. Rabid Pigs
4. Starlet
5. Happy Bunny Goes Fluff-Fluff Along
6. Bloody Mary (Live)
Head:
1. One Evening
2. S.D.B.J.
3. My Own Urine
4. If You Had Lips
5. 7 vs. 8
6. Pastoral
7. Waxeater
8. Good Thing
9. Tight ‘N Shiny
10. Killer McHann
11. Chrome
12. Killer McHann (Live)
Goat:
1. Then Comes Duddley
2. Mouth Breather
3. Nub
4. Seasick
5. Monkey Trick
6. Karpis
7. South Mouth
8. Lady Shoes
9. Rodeo in Joliet
10. Sunday You Need Love
11. Pop Song
12. Sesick (Live)
13. Lady Shoes (Live)
14. Monkey Trick (Live)
Liar:
1. Boilermaker
2. Gladiator
3. The Art of Self-Defense
4. Slave Ship
5. Puss
6. Whirl
7. Rope
8. Perk
9. Zachariah
10. Dancing Naked Ladies
11. Wheelchair Epidemic
12. Dancing Naked Ladies
13. Gladiator (Idful Studios Sessions Demo)
14. Boilermaker (Idful Studios Sessions Demo)
Down:
1. Fly on the Wall
2. Mistletoe
3. Countless Backs of Sad Losers
4. Queen for a Day
5. The Associate
6. Destroy Before Reading
7. Low Rider
8. 50 Cent
9. American BB
10. Horse
11. Din
12. Elegy
13. The Best Parts
14. White Hole
15. Glamorous
16. Deaf as a Bat
17. Panic in Cicero
