The Jazz Butcher Cult of the Basement Polygram

Well, thank god for the Jazz Butcher. If not for that ragged and dangerous silhouette falling drukenly acoss my door every few years, muttering something about Prague and throwing his latest album viciously onto the turntable, I might begin to believe that music had become safe.

But no. Just when we were getting to like three minute lobotomies ol' J.B. serves up Cult the Basement, a counter-culture album that takes love of the ground floor beyond defiant pride and into the realm of deification. As the liner notes read " beans blitburger and no such thing as noise reduction" (there's no use putting it in context, 'cuz it doesn't help.)

The dank, oily suburban basement — overtly mundane, secretly monstrous — perfectly sets the tone for this collection of ascerbic and ironic descriptions couched in an innocuous, sweet-sounding melody.

The first song on the album is the menacing intstruniental called, of course, "The Basement" which features the noise of two Germans brawling as background sounds. They could be French but even to ask that question means you've missed the point.

This track creeps back in between and beneath songs throughout, giving the album an eerie continuity that plagues the listener with a vague sense of persecution. By the third reprise, you find yourselves asking questions like, "What if they're not really my family?"

The Butcher's dangerous ironies are truly interesting. By lifting a few logs and tearing down a few facades, the band intelligently tackles such once-taboo topics as romantic homicide ("You're too good for this world /Something had to be done") and owning one's own Zepplin ("My Steff-Graf-Zepplin dream"). The entirely hummable melodies provide ironic counterpart and will keep you coming back even after the punchlines have lost their punch.

At some points when they can help themselves no longer, as with "Turtle Bait", an angry pilgrimage back to their punk-tinged roots, the band gives up all pretense of decorum and melody and simply rave for three minutes. To those who have made the acquaintance of the Jazz Butcher, Cult of the Basement will belike a visit from an old friend just back from therapy. To those who haven't, buy this one and deadbolt your doors.

MURRAY FOSTER

Cult Of The Basement

If things seemed weird back in February 1989, when we made this baby, the Weird were going shopping on bikes. In a farmhouse in the dead of winter, in personal circumstances too bizarre and complex to relate, we set about making our "commercial suicide" album. For the first time, I felt, we had made an album that really sounded like us. This record does have personality. One of my favourites, this.

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creation_records, Rough Trade