Colour Bük
Coming to Get the Stuff [CS; Wir Wollen Wulle]

Would I get tomatoes and/or other produce thrown at me if I said publicly that Colour Bük was the best band in the entire universe? Would you think me mentally ill if I told you that I spent nearly each of the days between receiving an e-mail from Wir Wollen Wulle about a new Colour Bük release and the damned thing finally arriving in my mailbox pacing with sweaty palms back and forth? Would you believe me if I told you it didn’t even matter that this ended up being a tape release instead of the 7-inch that I thought it was going to be? Well it’s all true, dammit. I still don’t know much about Colour Bük, nor does the band give very much in the way of concrete stylistic queues with which I can accurately describe what it is that they do in general — everything I’ve gotten from them has sounded different. For reference, you can dig back through a mean, putrid punk-rock 7-inch out sometime last year, and the year before that, the flat-out brilliant cartoon-core Our Favorite Fucking Day of the Goddamn Year tape on the now sadly dormant Weird Forest imprint. What you’ll get here is what I can only call rock and roll that someone forgot to refrigerate after opening, a once fresh, nutritious balance made rotten from over-exposure to heat and sun, mangled and mulchified into fertile fertilizer for your cassette deck of choice. If you can twist “passed its prime,” into a compliment with regards to music, that’s kind of what I want to say here… Don’t bother with headphones, they won’t help. Drums are beaten to black and blue with femur bones, speaker cones cry out in pain, begging for their lives lest Colour Bük ruthlessly rip them in half. A moment of softness with some synths and a confused/lost sounding reverb’d vocal speaking in a foreign tongue for some reason. And then later a wallow in a swamp of slow-motion vocals and feedback while a spang-a-lang pattern splashes lazily on a ride cymbal. And then I’m trying to figure out how to explain the Daft Punk-like house beat toward the end of the tape, drowning in effects, the album succumbing to a soft, flanger-assisted suicide. I know it’s still early, but I’m ready to call Coming to Get the Stuff the weirdest album of 2014, if not my favorite.


Cerberus seeks to document the spate of home recorders and backyard labels pressing limited-run LPs, 7-inches, cassettes, and objet d’art with unique packaging and unknown sound. We love everything about the overlooked or unappreciated. If you feel you fit such a category, email us here.

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