“Spydr Brain” drops you into the middle of itself, and you look around like you totally belong but you’re not sure why, sort of like that explanation in Christopher Nolan’s Inception where you don’t remember how you got to where you are when you’re dreaming. Kind of like this review – where was the introductory hogwash? There is none. Get with it. And oh, by the way, look at me, learning things from Hollywood films – who needs a liberal arts education?
Inception is so old now!
God that sounds like Herbie Hancock on electric keys, and that wah guitar is like a blast of skunk smoke to the face, a contact high you breathe through your ears. It’s like Bitches Brew in five and a half blistering minutes! Jennifer Herrema’s post–other stuff project shreds your face and your ass and then your face again, turning spastic funk to space rock back to fastic spunk quicker than you realize that you can breathe through your eyelids. There are all kinds of facial entrances that conduct gaseous matter to your lungs – ears, eyes, bet you didn’t know any of that. Well, Black Bananas is here to teach you every dirty little secret.
And then it’s your mouth’s turn – “Frozen Margarita” time! I’m not a huge fan of frozen margaritas – I prefer mine on the rocks with a salt rim and nothing lower quality than Patron tequila. But this is the B-side of a seven-inch record, not a drink, and besides, it’s only 10:00 am. Herrema and co. are way more laid back on “Frozen Margarita” (and why wouldn’t they be?), punctuating the airwaves with more noxious funk than your cat’s ass. It’s a fully hypnotic session, and Herrema does a spoken-word schtick over the bubbling bass, guitar, piano, and sax, rhythm squirting here and there at will. She laughs a lot. She’s probably baked.
Then flip it back over to “Spydr Brain” again, because you can’t get enough of it, and I have to bookend my narrative with a totally abrupt halt—