Playing The Giddy Zygote

There are only two types of metal: very very good and very very bad. If you plotted a chart of the quality of all metal in history, you'd find a black huddle in the centre of the page, and a dispersing field about the rest of the sheet, with a ring of empty space where all the bands that make you say "s'alright" would live. I call it the "shrug polo of metal response".

This review is not of a metal band.


FOETUS 502 – SEPTOLOGY (Eyeless Records triple CD)

Yep, you read that right, triple CD. And it’s not even Foetus 502’s first three disc pack! To be honest, the idea of listening to all of Foetus 502 creator Robert Ridley-Shackleton’s releases consecutively would break the strongest of wills; add Leo McKern shouting “Why did you resign?” every 4 bars and we’d crack in no time. But does this have any value as music, as opposed to maverick interrogation tool?

In tiny doses, yes. The Foetus 502 sound is astoundingly simple, just some hissing drum machine rhythms that sound like hundreds of tiny aerosol deoderants sprayed in formation, overlaid with occasional one finger keyboard and repetitive vocal slurs, howls and whispers. It doesn’t take a musicology doctorate to identify a Suicide influence, but it has been wrapped in tape hiss and - possibly wilful - ineptitude. Ridley-Shackleton is a fine artist, so we suspect that Foetus 502 is a character he has created, and that his career is best viewed as a protracted performance piece, but we may be wrong and perhaps the work is entirely sincere. Either way, these are the slipshod cassette creations of a branchline misfit woefully deluded that he is a pop star; he doubtless lives off Microchips and Pop Tarts, and talks to a faded poster of Shakin’ Stevens whilst waiting for that inevitable telegram from David Geffen. The vocals are probably meant to capture an elemental sensuality, somewhere between Elvis, Iggy and Prince, but, in their adenoidal mid-Atlantic yelp, sound more like a primary school kid playing The A Team at break time.

One way to leaven the draining experience of listening to this three hour plus set, is to make it a game of Hunt The EP. There’s about 20 minutes of good quality music hidden in here: “Renegade” is a slightly alarming Chuck Norris enthusiast spouting non sequiturs over what might be the sound of a helicopter blowing its nose; “Teeth” is an unnerving tale of dental damage accompanied by some elementary pause button tape manipulation; “Mark Of The Wolves” is a cheeky ersatz sex funk recalling Baby Ford; “Party” has an insistent white noise rhythm, and seems to parody a thousand lamely Dionysian club tracks, not least Kraze’s 1988 anthem of the same name (“Toffee apples for everyone!”). The trouble is that these moments of fun are surrounded by overlong forays into the same shallow pool of ideas, truly horrible four track a cappella doodles and some sublimely inessential no-fi live recordings.

We admire Eyeless. Their home made web-distributed ethic perfectly side-steps the stumbling music industry, and they have released some great records, especially those by New York’s delicate Peace For Old Ghosts, and Vileswarm, featuring label boss David K Frampton and Lee Riley from Euhedral. However, this set is evidence of what can go wrong with that business model, where everything is permitted, necessity dictates nothing, and “editing” is a dirty word. Still, if you’re looking for an easy job, why not see whether Foetus 502 is advertising for a studio cleaner? Presumably the cutting room floor is spotless, and the bins probably don’t need emptying too often either.