Tuesday, 26 June 2012

Album Review: The New Creation - Troubled


Every Sunday in Longwell Green, the church bell rings and twenty or so ancient grey bum cheeks squish down on the pews like rotten apples rolled against the farmer's fence. They sit in the same places they sat the week before.
     The Vicar looks out on his congregation and sees a bank of torpid reptiles, each eager to suck the sweet, nourishing holy wisdom milk out of his succulent and swollen oratory... titty, which is weird because reptiles don't usually like milk.
     Some of them look more like reptiles than others. Rest in peace, Lonesome George, thinks the Vicar, looking at a tortoise-like creature - Bob, he thinks his name is - sitting in the front row. A flash of lightning and a strong mental image of old Bob gumming his bared nipple, and then of Lonesome George. He is put off for a moment, but he recovers and gives a thumping sermon on sodomy. He thrusts his hips, wipes sweat from his brow, uses the word 'gape' four times, and passes around some tatty bits of magazine he found in the car park. He's very much against it: sodomy. The congregation murmurs its approval, not really understanding a single solitary word. Except Bob, who seems fraught.
     The Vicar likes to end his sermons with some catchy words of wisdom: 'Someone said to me, “the bible has as much to say on the current economic climate as Stonehenge has on setting up a wi-fi network in your home or office.”' But he forgets what his objection to the statement was and finishes with, ' ...he shouldn't be saying things like that, the little...' he looks up, making eye-contact with no one in particular: '...cock.'
     He lets everyone go home early.
     The old people rise very slowly from their seats and go off to nobody knows where, leaving the vicar alone in the church.
     He spits on the carpet and rubs it in with his foot. Didn't know why he did that. Oh well.
     Then he puts 'Troubled' by The New Creation on the church stereo, which is usually reserved for that tune they play at weddings and C. S. Lewis audiobooks read by Anne Widdecombe. He dances around the font in a religious fervour.

What the fuck. It's really good. It's like The Shaggs saved up and bought a guitar tuner and came very close to figuring out how to use it. The lyrics are, at times, deeply off-putting, but no more so than, say, Darwin Deez lyrics. That little cock. And it just sounds nice. Mostly. Amen.

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