sorted magazine - issue 4

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Blink 182 - Dude Ranch (Geffen)

Punk is dead! Long live punk! Or at least the turgid teenybopper style thrown up by San Diegoís Blink-182 is. Dead, that is. And no, I hope it doesnít live on. Dude Ranch is one of those albums so self-conscious of its own parody and funniness it just isnít funny. According to the incomprehensibly stupid press release, the band met each other at the Future Proctologists of America camping trip, where they recognised a mutual love for songs involving girls, friends, life and chronic diarrhoea. Yep, itís one of those bands.

Musically, Dude Ranch is nothing new. There isnít even the semblance of a new idea in here. By the way, did you know one of the members only exercises one butt cheek? Elements, nay, stereotyped reproductions of Green Day, Rancid and a million other grungy power-pop bands are all compiled into an album that I canít even think of one good reason for listening to. This sort of music should be fun. This is merely futile. Did you know another member of the group was raised by a tribe of mimes in the hills of Poway after his parents threw him out for urinating on himself?

Blink-182 remind me desperately of those kids in school who would do anything to be liked.

Embarrassment and dignity mean nothing to them. Iíve nothing personally against toilet humour. People like Frank Zappa and the Butthole Surfers pull it off (he, he, he) superbly, elevating the lowly to exalted realms of surrealism. Blink-182 do the exact opposite, downgrading everything to their own blinkered (methinks I should write press releases for them) vision. By the way, did you know they used to be a mariachi band available for weddings known as "El Cuatro and the Catrones"?

No, neither did I, and I donít particularly care.

by Niall Byrne.