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Your Daughters: a CSP Album Review
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With the dimly burbling newfound popularity of Clark Schpiell, which most culture-watchers agree is part of the same kind of crass nostalgic camp sensibility that allows Patridge Family re-runs to still be shown on the air, this site has had an increasing number of closeted Schpiell fans (or jailed fans, the letters are not always clear) send us scraps and fragments of Schpielldom they have found in the backs of closets or while finally cleaning out that lowest drawer in the kitchen, the one with the used matchbooks and broken fingernail clippers and a phone bill from the Carter Administration. "Ted," who refuses to have his full name published but who says that he was "a very very big fan of the band, oh yes, they would have tasted so sweet," came across a review of CSP's Your Daughters Are Sucking on Us Right Now* album, surely the nadir (or pinnacle, depending upon your point of view) of their debauched lifestyle both onstage and off. This was the time of the most violent Groce brothers fights, Dave's onstage eloctrocution, and of course Dr. M's "sheeperating" incident in the spring of that year. Schpiell fans might remember that it took the influence of Eck's great-uncle to get Dr. M from being charged with crimes against humanity.

Read on, Schpiellheads.


I would like to begin this review by stating outright that I tried very hard to find something, anything, to commend about this album. Here at Great Plains Heavy Metal and Horny Wives Personals magazine we believe in promoting the thriving and vibrant metal scene here in this barren God-foresaken wasteland we lovingly call home.

Due to this fundamental, unshakeable principle which governs this magazine, combined with the fact that we just don't get a lot of metal bands here putting out full-length releases and sending complimentary review copies to our offices (albeit wrapped in masking tape with our address scrawled on in crayon), I truly and desperately wanted to be able to say something in this review like "GO OUT AND SUPPORT LOCAL BANDS" like Schpiell, I wanted to be able to engage in superlatives that would bolster the metal scene here, like "ANOTHER GREAT ALBUM BY THE PLAINS' GREATEST METAL ACT" and so forth. But, unfortunately, if I said any of these things, I would be lying. Utterly and completely. Lying. In fact, if I were to even say one decent thing about this latest garbled trashfest from Clark Schpiell and the Furry Cockroaches without Butts album Your Daughters Are Sucking on Us Right Now, I would be committing a sin. And not just an ethical sin or a moral one, no, we've all been immoral here and there, hell, haven't we all whipped out our balls and shaken our scrotum at an elderly couple at least once in our lives (or their breasts or genitalia, for our female readership, neither this reviewer nor this magazine would ever presume that heavy metal music as it's practiced and lived in the upper Great Plains states does not appeal to a lot of grrrlz out there and especially if you're a slut and married GIVE US A CALL!). Anyway, finding a decent thing to say about this album would be a mortal sin, a sin against Creation, a sin against the Sacre, and let me just point out that I am an atheist to the very core of my being, but all I know is that if I were to indicate in ANY SMALL WAY that you should go out and purchase this amazingly infantile puke-o-rama crap orgy, I would wish and dream and desire and, yes, PRAY with EVERY LAST FIBER of my being that a JUST AND VENGEFUL GOD would SMITE ME DOWN and DRIVE MY CORPSE DEEP INTO THE EARTH where a race of mutants would sodomize my decayed burnt stinking cadaver until my soul was nothing but BLOODY SHIT-SMEARED ASH to be flushed to the deepest pits of hell by a flaming river of urine, feces, pus and, undoubtedly, the members of Clark Schpiell.

Having laid out that disclaimer, let me try in some way to convince tourists and music lovers that Clark Schpiell IS IN NO WAY indicative of the musical talent (or moral fiber) of most of the artists that hail from this fine upstanding region. Don't get me wrong, we still know how to ROCK AND FUCKING ROLL MOTHERFUCKER, BLEAH BLEAH BLEEEAAAAHHHH!!! But we do not condone or even understand AT ALL the blatantly perverted behavior of this band on tour nor, in fact, do we begin to comprehend the inhumane barbarity that compels them to encode the sickening putridity they call "songs" onto media that human beings, animals, vegetables and minerals could gain access to.

The only dimmest shred of consolation, the faint glimmer of a faraway rescuer as you the listener is dying, stranded, is the fact that the lyrics are completely incomprehensible, with the possible exception of track 8, "(Ain't Nothing) Wetter than My Woman," where a repeated "fart-hopping" seems to function as some kind of chorus. Given the incomprehensibility, I can only implore you to NOT LOOK AT THE PRINTED LYRICS, which drip with unholy adjectives and crawl with nauseating nouns, describing acts of sex, violence and drug abuse with so little poetry and so much crass vulgarity that it nearly takes all the fun out of these activities themselves.

As for the "music," (with due apologies to musicians for being forced to use such an erroneous term in this instance) all I can say is that I don't believe in the undead, but I have a hard time believing that the inventors of every instrument "played" by the band, indeed, that every single person who has ever played these instruments would not RISE UP FROM THE GRAVE for the sole purpose of SLAYING AND DISCHARGING FROM THIS PLANE OF EXISTENCE every single member of the Clark Schpiell outfit.

And speaking of outfit, I implore you, don't look at the band photo on the back of the record. It can be hard to avoid looking at, since it's right there next to the track list, but if you haven't already taken my advice and burned this album into ashes and had the ashes disposed of by a company specializing in hazardous materials, then at least do everything possible to avoid actually having to see any members of the band in that picture. Clark Schpiell, as they always do, take some very excellent fashion ideasˇsuch as lipstick, too-short cutoffs, bleach-blond ratted hair and eye shadowˇand just degrade it.

Clark Schpiell released this abomination, their fourth and easily most irritating (in the same way that flesh-eating bacteria and anal probes are "irritating") album last weekend, and already they've embarked on another PoserFest tour across North Dakota's Ward County and western Mercer County, with their annual Halloween stop in Stanley, which inevitably involves riots and the closing of the Amtrak station, causing considerable passenger disgruntlement for those east-bound for Chicago. (I would like to note that we here at the magazine believe strongly in crowd riots at heavy metal concerts, but we believe that a band should so enrage the crowd against the System that they begin going out and rioting; in CSP's case, the riots inevitably start because the local citizenry would rather tear down their own houses and businesses than allow them to remain standing after such a spiritually perverted wave of noise has been washed over them from the local armory or junior high gymnasium or whatever other venue has agreed to allow these five misshapen sex criminals and their troglodytic manager to spread their stomach-churning brand of chunk-hurling toilet-worshipping Filth to the fine citizens of North Dakota and surrounding states and provinces.)

I've always believed that music, and music criticism, should have the power to incite the listener, the reader, to act, to join in the struggle for a just society. So I'm asking you, dear reader, to join with me in my crusade to stamp out these enemies of all that is sacred, no matter what you context or worldview. Fight these demons of humanity, let them taste the righteous steel of our blades as we slice their throats. But I fear that it must be you who take up this mantel, I am heading now for the medicine cabinet and then the bathtub to shuffle myself off this mortal coil. It will be the only way to erase the name Clark Schpiell from my brain; no one should have had to listen to this album the way I have been, but understand that I blame no one. The cold embrace of the Eternal Dark will be welcome to me after having sampled this latest Schpiell release. I bid you adieu, fair readers. Rise up! Rise up against Schpiell! Adieu, adieu, adieu . . .

Tracks include "Ruby, you a Good Lay," "F.A.N.G.," "Blade to Your Balls, Knife to Your Nuts," and a cover of "On My Own" from the musical "Les Miserables."

*Editor's Note: It should be noted that, after two weeks of miserable sales (excepting in the seldom-coveted 30-45 male pedophile demographic), the album was re-released under the title Strawberry Shortcake and the Island of Berry Bunnies. Sales did not improve due to a court injunction, but the inevitable lawsuit gave the band a much needed injection of essentially free publicity. In the end, the band claimed the new title was merely a typo, and the judge agreed to dismiss the suit, seemingly just to get Dr.M and his constantly exposed ass-cheeks out of his court-room.

end of essay
Joseph G. Carson Portrait Joe was the original guitarist for the now legendary Clark Schpiell and the Furry Cockroaches without Butts, playing two chords in a four-chord song under the assumed name of Jason, which he has taken to be a metaphor for his existence (the two chords part, not the Jason part). He has contributed several long pieces to CSP, including the crime novels Danine and Inheriting Dust, the latter of which is still in progress. He has also written the occasional humor piece, movie review, and political essay. | more essays by Joseph
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