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This
record is incredibly good. It is so good and addictive indeed, I
am afraid I will fail miserably at reviewing it regardless of
how long it takes me to form judgment and to translate that into
a couple of paragraphs. No matter what I do, I feel defeated.
That’s how Shit and Shine make me feel; defeated. Like I am
laying motionless on the battleground and I can only see the
shuffling feet of other warriors; running, jumping and falling in
all directions, all these while will is all I have left –
deep inside I wanna fight and die like a hero - but my strength
is so long gone I am unable to move. I feel like a
pussy. I am the first to admit that I can’t even compare with
those talented writers quoted in the sticker that comes attached
to this CD's jewel case. There is just no way that I could represent or say
something that will accurately inform you as to what lies
dormant inside this plastic titled Cherry in the same
educated, well-spoken and articulate way that those chaps did.
To me
though, Cherry is firstly a very disturbing record.
‘Deranged’ is, I think, a more accurate word. It does it more
justice. “Creepy Ballerina” does for me what some Norwegian
black metaller wishes his music did for all; the hair on my
shoulders and ass stood like those of a porcupine. A cold chill
runs through my esophagus and at that point I just kind of wish
I could turn into an ice cube. Suddenly, I think of Kubrick’s
The Shining. After I visit Shit and Shine’s MySpace page some of
these suspicions are confirmed. There are two blond little girls
with their manes covering their faces standing in front of
some Orange amps. And then there are these two dudes, who like
the bastard offspring of a Blue Man as fucked by that Donnie Darko stupid looking bunny, stand with a brunette, smoke a pipe
and pose in a very normal looking living room.
Cherry
remains insane despite the fact that the creepy factor is turned
down a notch in subsequent songs, the disturbance remains
unmoved and unchallenged. Are these even songs? One may ask.
Cherry is comprised of slabs of music, chunklets of noise;
there are tribal sounds, repetitive drum beats, mechanical
somethings, one solid slice of well-written storytelling.
Cherry seems like the sounds produced by warped minds, like
some psycho or serial killer went on a drunken binge with some
machine and, like him, disturbed as all fuck, was trying to
subliminally tell us something. And I am not sure what Cherry
says at all. I just know that I like it. And that I am not
qualified to represent it accurately.
MySpace
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