Pissed Jeans: ‘Honeys’ – Album Review

 

It seems that at some point, the things people liked, became the things they wanted people to like them for liking. There’s an exception to every rule. Words can barely describe how much of a huge, swinging, unassailable gravel-in-your-jap’s-eye dick this music makes you feel - winking and cocking a finger-pistol at the school kids while smoking by the propane. Music to crash and assassinate girls’ parties with – aw, Boo Hoo, if you cut her, does she not bleed receipts?

Which isn’t to say that liking this is just another sort of affectation – because you can’t even begin to think you like it, unless you enjoy it. And by ‘enjoy’ I mean feel an incorrigible jonesing in your bones to breathe evaporated gasoline.

Do not operate heavy machinery or a motor vehicle under the influence of this album. As soon as ‘Bathroom Laughter’ peels-out you’re probably going to want to hit something. And if you’ve alienated everyone else, then your self will have to do.

 

 

Which isn’t to say ‘Honeys’ is a complete brow-beating bellow-fest; ‘Cafeteria Food’s accusatory ode to a “project manager” has flashes of deadpan hilarity via lines like:

“People walking round looking sorry,
someone will even cry,
I’ll be feeling rosy,
’cause you’re dead, you died
and I’m feeling like I won the Super Bowl.”

‘Health Plan’ conniption fits into existence via a ‘Territorial Pissings’ intro and sustains its brief lifespan with a simple quip divulging the intricacies of it’s title’s ‘plan’: “YOU WANNA KNOW MY SECRET? I STAY AWAY FROM DOCTORS!” which, aptly enough, never gets old.

Remember when you’d get a new cash card, and had nothing you had to spend your money-on, other than music or the paraphernalia associated with it, and how all those expiration dates on each new card no longer seen so far away? Spend it on this and amplify your lifeforce, or snip your major veins with some rusty nail clippers.

Music writers are always talking about whether bands ‘bring something new to the conversation’.

Pissed Jeans do. A long overdue, ‘conversation’-ending “Fuck You”.