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
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.