I am at a bit of a loss as to where to start in this review for self-proclaimed greatest living American writer Neal Pollack's first album. Satirical albums like The Rutles' Archaeology, or Spinal Tap's hysterical Break Like The Wind escape the general form of pop criticism as their goal is completely different. Admittedly both albums were musically very competent and captured the nuances of the genres they were caricaturing brilliantly (as we all know, many people, even critics and musicians, were completely unaware that This Is Spinal Tap was a comedy on their first viewing); but you could only take them on what they were, satirical albums, and therefore could only be judged on how well they parodied the genres they were aiming at. Which all makes this a little trickier for me.
Pollack claims in the notes on the back of the record that : 'Somehow, we produced an album that both parodies the current pretentious garage rock and punk revivals while still adhering to the true spirit of both those genres.' Whilst no doubt the album does encapsulate the spirit, I am not exactly sure that it actually does parody the current garage rock / punk revival. What Pollack does seem to end up parodying is punk and garage in the 1970's. Lyrically the album is mostly a satire of the arty West Village scene that spawned Lou Reed, and this he does with varying degrees of success.
The Ramones inflected opening number, 'New York City' is one of the high points. 'New York City is a pile of shit / Andy Warhol is a pile of shit.' Like The Ramones and The Sex Pistols, short, succinct, straight to the point, and, with an agreeable nod to the musical prowess at the time, only two chords in the song. 'Do The Ostrich' is less successful, its metaphor a little clumsy and obvious. With 'Memories Of Times Square (The Dildo Song)' we are really into Velvet's territory, and any song containing a dildo juggling dwarf and a hooker called Tristan Isolde gets my vote. I don't think I need to explain the title track, although it is performed with the required intensity, and 'Racism Number 5' is suitably mocking of arty liberalism. 'I'm A Seeker,' brings in some Yardbirds like riffs and later on 'I Wipe My Ass On Your Novel,' does exactly what it says on the tin.
Musically Pollack has built up a good collection of instrumentalists. It is only fit that singer songwriter Jim Roll (friend to esteemed writers such as Denis Johnson and Rick Moody) participated along with Neil Cleary and Dakota Smith; and they do indeed create excellent punk/garage templates for Pollack to work with.
After all my preamble at the beginning of this review I suppose I should come up with a decent conclusion. Sadly I cannot, I know what America's greatest living writer would want.
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