Devil: Heyyyy folks! In case you didn't ascertain my identity from the perfectly legible bold-faced word that begins this article, I'm the Devil! Yeah, that's right, you god-fearing fucks, I'm Mephistopheles, the most bad-ass ‘-les’ out there (eat my cherry-red dingo, Hercules). I'm here to help Grant review the new Dead Bodies disc, offering him every ounce of my wit and candor for a nominal fee (his soul upon death, mehopes). Of course, every bed is cursed by a wet blanket, and with that in mind, I introduce to you my counterpart, CD Reviewing Jesus. He's going to contradict everything I say in all likelihood. I'd get pissed off and club him one on the halo, but I'm as used to this song-and-dance-routine as my new pal Anna Nikki Smith is to pitchforks in her bum. So without further ado, I present my rival, the man that may very well claim Grant's soul before this is over, the one and only, JC!
Jesus: Goddamnit, why do you always get to talk first? Here I am trying to represent virtue and kindliness – two things Grant has much to learn about as a reviewer/person – and I always end up getting the cold, hard shaft. You're already getting your way in so many areas as it is. Heavy metal is huge, again, that whole ‘album-reversing’ scam you suggested to Avey was set into motion, Dave Matthews is not only a household name but getting mentions on Tiny Mix Tapes against all odds, and the development of the noise genre continues unabated. When do I gets mine, you hoofed, slick-haired, mustached bitch?
Devil: Oh lay off with the stereotypes. I'm sure you'd love to have the public believe that I have a forked tail and scary-lookin' horns, but we both know I take the form of whatever a person fears most. For instance, since we're floating around in Grant's just-plain-ugly subconscious I've taken the form of a cockroach in a bowl of cereal. And look at you! You're always the same old bearded Jesus Grant's envisioned from Day One: Bearded and long-haired, with a beard ... did I mention bearded?
Jesus: Well that just goes to show; I have more consistency, whereas you are always taking on different forms. Identity crisis much? Remember how you used to be a girl in grade school? Then when Grant was a teenager you turned into a giant, pulsating pimple. In college? You were effort; you couldn't even assume a physical form! HA! You're nothing but an ongoing phobia. And a whore to boot. Besides, you're just trying to distract Grant from writing his review of The Dead Bodies' Mr. Spookhouse's Pink House.
Devil: Why shouldn't I distract him? He's reviewing an album with two houses in the title. That shit's redundant! And have you taken enough breaks from kissing god's ass to listen to this thing? It's disjointed, disintegratory, disinteresting, disorienting, disenchanting, and more dystopian than, like, me. But oooh, let me guess, you're going to give Dead Bodies the benefit of the doubt. Big surprise! Jesus Christ, leave it to a pussy like you to justify even the most blasphemous combinations of influences. One minute they think they're a cock-rock band, the next a one-stop electronic superstore of ‘blip’ sounds, the next an Isaac Brock-ian brand of sewer sludge, the next a mellow movie-soundtrack, the next a wispy acoustic hippie convent. And you deride me for changing forms ...
Jesus: Yes, but unlike you, The Dead Bodies are graceful in the way they morph. They lithely hop from lily to lily because their minds are exploding with ideas, not because they don't have a pad of their own. An impatient philistine like you would never get it because you can't just listen to the first 10 seconds of every song. You have to explore the ENTIRE Spookhouse. You know what your problem is? You never take the time to see the good in music. You rush to judgment and, in the end, fairly make an ass of yourself.
Devil: Well if I'm an ass then Grant's an asshat. Wait 'til you see his review of the Twilight Sad album. Man, you must have been out taking a whiz when he wrote that one. It's judgmental, needlessly vicious, and insular -- just like many of your followers, come to think of it.
Jesus: Damn, even I can't argue with that. But I stand firm: The Dead Bodies are forging new ground, creating a world of their own, occasionally out-of-pitch vocals or no. All you need to do is press ‘Play.’
Devil: And all I need to do is read a press sheet to find a voice more corrupted by needless enthusiasm. You're nothing but a promoter disguised as one-half of that still, small voice people hear in the back of their heads.
Jesus: Bullshit!
Devil: Bulltrue! You record-label shill, you; how much did Quite Scientific pay you?
Jesus: Oh right, like that tiny label can afford to bribe me. I'm the son of god, for chrissakes. And, as much as you'd like to distract Grant from his reviewing duties, he's going to dig this album like his own six-foot trench. Hell, he's a sucker for a good acid trip. And the bonus EP tacked onto the end? Putty in Dead Bodies' hands, he'll be.
Devil: We'll see about that. Eccentricity can only take you so far; Grant knows the difference between experimentalism and weird-for-weird's-sake ...
Jesus: HA! That's where you're wrong; anyone who's ever read Tiny Mix Tapes knows Grant The Jagoff gives the weird albums high marks every time.
FLASH-SIZZLE-POP-PLOP-WHIZ-BANG
[Grant wakes up dazed after a long period of contemplation, sets out to write his review of The Dead Bodies' Mr. Spookhouse's Pink House, and fails. A few weeks later, this review mysteriously materializes in Mr P's Inbox. As he tends to, P irresponsibly runs it without any questions, marking in his daily planner, “Note To Self: Fire Grant when P Funk gets back from Japan.”]
More about: The Dead Bodies
