Homunculus Construction in 42 Easy Lessons (release pseudonym: Job Finder & the Mental Cruelty)
"Dozens of plentifully brief tracks . .
. the sample repeated until you can do it in the dark . . . these rude raps do deserve a
wider audience - double figures at least, they're highly distracting, lyrics crafted with
love, they're like John Cooper Clarke fronting Keith Levine and those other PiL drop-outs,
but if only Job Finder could've been discovered by Martin Hannett before he died, units
might well have shifted."
the opening Casio blasts and the absurd high pitched backing vocalists on
the tape-opening Fated Chalice . . . these 42 rap songs are absurd
in the time-honoured tradition of the country that gave us The Goon Show,
Dogliveroil and Roger Moore. One song describes highs the band members
have received by smoking various members of the animal kingdom, leading me
to wonder if Job Finder
& the Mental Cruelty have been exchanging horror stories with
Graham 'I hate Vermin' Lambkin. Others have titles like Rabbit Punch in
the Pigeon Chest, Popacatapetl was an Acidhead, and everyone's
favourite, (You the Listener Are an) Effette Knicker-Sniffing Nancy.
Nearly all of them move along at such a clip that it's almost impossible
to tell what the hell they're talking about. I wish I still owned a car,
I'd blast this out of my speakers on the hottest day of every
|Grab yr. Balaclavas and lets go! (release
pseudonym: Jahrizlafoureye & the Heady Bread Beast)
"Nicest of all about these tapes is that you can't
concentrate on anything else while they're playing - much wisdom going around those young
spools - 'the more you consume, the less you live' - VERY VERY VITALLY TRUE."
Talbot Road (1990)
". . . legendary Judge Mental sessions
that took place in Blackpool last winter while . . . on weekend leave from the acid
casualty amphetamine psychosis ward of Victoria Hospital. Hear . . . slices of a dozen
different realities and too many personalities in one brain that got scrambled."
"The voice of Judge
Mental, which is
kind of reedy and northern, isn't ginormously well suited to rapping, but I don't think
its owner is too bothered. More than any other genre, except possibly avant-garde field
recordings of firearms, hip-hop lends itself well to expressing one's belief in the
twattiness of others. Which is perhaps why the author, possessed by a desire to point
fingers, name names, and speak out against arseholes, was drawn to the genre. Whoever did Talbot
Road has clearly encountered a lot of numbskulls in his time, and the majority of
them seem to get a mention here. Imagine a less fluent, more sweary nephew of Mark E.
Smith who's just been weaned off Hellbastard and onto the first Beatles album, and is so
pissed off with the large quantity of fuckwits in his life that he can't wait for the
studio time and has just gone ahead and done it all on a home stereo. Talbot
be unlistenable crap, but somehow it isn't. In fact it is entirely without dull
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