Listening to the Melvins always conjures up vivid images of a lost world: sitting around in a suburban share house, the interior décor a collage of Kiss albums, Led Zeppelin posters, a shabby brown couch, a few empty beer bottles and the feral stench of spilt bong water. But that’s why the Melvins – now 33-years-old and as irreverent as ever – are so goddam consistent. It’s there as soon as the Melvins’ new album, Basses Loaded lumbers into action with the sludgy stoner rock of The Decay of Living, all adolescent lethargy and heavy rock attitude. It’s there on the Bumcrack USA ‘70s stadium rock of Choco Plumbing; while Beer Hippie is a grinding cut down of hippie philosophy, washed down with a killer Sabbath riff.
On I Want to Tell You, the Melvins get all proto-glam rock on us. On Captain Come Down we’re back in the parents’ bedroom, drooling over Metallica and sniggering at old Mad magazines. Hideous Woman swaggers like a high school kid bathing in the excitement of hormonal development; Shaving Cream is just plain fucking stupid, a disgusting take on The Goon Show. Planet Distructo is Dark Side of the Moon via Tommy-era Who, and War Pussy should be a razor sharp rhetorical destruction of the US military-industrial complex, but it’s probably just a murderous stoner rock riff searching for a political cause.
Maybe I Am Amused jumps back to the Melvins’ amusing vaudeville and laughs at anyone who gives a shit; Phyllis Dillard couldn’t give a shit and neither should you. And that’s the thing about the Melvins – it’s always what you want it to be, whatever it’s trying to be. Go figure that out.
BY PATRICK EMERY
