Ah Melvins. They’re one of those bands that feel a bit like an old friend who shows up at your house out of the blue and with an armful of weird records. You haven’t seen them in ages, but you know you’re in for one hell of a night. We’ll leave aside the typically bizarre press release for Working With God because, let’s face it, any album that kicks off with a Beach Boys’ pastiche entitled I Fuck Around had better be on the side of the angels, lest the devil start sharpening his pitchfork collection. Anyhow, this is Melvins 1983 incarnation (King Buzzo, Dale Crover and on-again, off-again member Mike Dillard), which last unleashed sonic heck with 2013’s Tres Cabrones and which, despite the gap, has lost none of its chemistry. The album, complete with typically cool Mackie Osborne artwork, is out now via Mike Patton’s way-cool Ipecac label and, to save you reading my usual blurb, you’re best off just buying a copy, because that’ll surely be my advice at the end.
Still here? OK, well, you were given an out, so don’t blame me if I wax lyrical from hereon in.
Anyhow, the record kicks off with I Fuck Around which, in the chain of inspiration, sits somewhere alongside the band’s batshit mental reworking of Queen’s Best Friend. It’s dumb, it’s fun and it kinda evokes the start of a party, when everyone’s in a great mood and the possibilities are endless. Of course, this is The Goodamn MelvinsTM, so it all collapses in on itself in time for the sludgy horror of Negative No No, a track built around a nimble beat and a speaker-frying riff. Reminiscent of the none-more-awesome Night Goat, it’s the sort of gonzo metal horror that you can only get from a guitar-wielding maniac in a muumuu and it kicks serious amounts of ass. Then, lest you get too comfortable, there’s the Mike-Patton-on-a-Butthole-Surfers trip of Bouncing Rick, the sort of effortlessly cool song that Melvins churn out with insouciance, when all other bands would trade a body part to create its equal. It rocks. It rolls. It creeps up behind you and gives you a cheeky goose and it fails to prepare you for the dirty groove of Caddy Daddy, a riff monster that whispers in your ear as it pummels you with a baseball bat. With Buzz’s guitars scratching the surface of Dale’s low-slung bass manoeuvres, Caddy Daddy is a pretty much what everyone imagines Melvins do all the time, refined to perfection and delivered with unhinged glee. Of course, if Melvins did only play tracks like Caddy Daddy, they probably would have vanished from the scene years ago, and so we find ourselves diverted into the 23-second weirdness of 1 Brian, The Horse-Faced Goon, a prelude to… well, Brian, The Horse-Faced Goon – a track that appears to approximate punk as filtered through the brain of King Buzzo. A track made for Mike’s awesomely innovative percussion, Brian The Horse-Faced Goon makes good of Buzz’s claim that the Melvins are incredibly capable musicians, although you’ll find yourself too caught up in the momentum to notice on the first play through.
What’s next? Well, if you’d said: “more weirdness”, you’d have made a fair bet and (of course) found yourself out of pocket as the band launch straight into the blistering rock stomp of Boy Mike, a track that summons memories of the time when Gibby Haynes used to moonlight on Ministry records. The band then invert their previous formula, with 1 Fuck You proving to be a cheeky nod to Klassic Kiss with some exceptional bass work and a chorus that does little to expand beyond the title. It’s followed by the brief Fuck You, a song that seems to be building up to something, only to fade out on a bunch of screaming… Fuck You indeed…
Oh, but wait, The Great Good Place is next and it’s Melvins in excelsis – with sparky riffs and irritatingly catchy melodies all present and correct. That said, for my money, the sludgy Hot Fish is a highlight that harks back to the bizarre Millenial Monsterwork of The Fantomas Melvins Big Band, the brutal riffs expanding to almost five-minutes in length. It’s glorious, vaguely foolish (thanks to a chorus that seems to be actually selling the titular product) and, with its awesome production, it sounds heavier than a very heavy thing indeed. As does Hund, which is surely named after the rapid exhalation that comes from shouting the title at dazed passers-by from your window (try it, you won’t be disappointed). Oh yeah, Hund also has a solo that sounds like the band kidnapped Ace Frehley and forced him to widdle whilst attached to a car battery. It leaves Goodnight Sweetheart to see the record out, with backwards-masked messages giving way to a barber shop-style close. Obviously.
Look, if you like Melvins, you want this record. If you don’t like Melvins, you’re wrong, and you need this record… just buy it, OK? 9/10
