Musically, the dawn of 21st
century was not unlike the mid-70s. Back then, the music
that inspired Bacchanalian festivals had faded into the
soothing tones of Joni Mitchell and the Alan Parson’s
Project. It went from being the soundtrack to bizarre
social experimentation to being the uninspiring background
music for your daily commute that’s still played on
divorce-rock stations across the country. With the
proliferation of emo, Radiohead, and droning electronica,
it’s obvious that the once-interesting indie scene has
sagged into some kind of listless adult contemporary
state. But just as people with a low tolerance for boredom
were cooking up punk and hip-hop when this happened in the
70s, there are now people brewing something more exciting
to scrape the barnacles off the rotting hull of the music
industry today. Enter the Sea Donkeys.
The Donkeys are a crew of social rejects that have
given up land-lubbery for a life aboard their haunted
garbage trawler, the Grizzled Craw. They spend most of
their time festering aboard the Craw, coming ashore
occasionally to restock their liquor cabinet and play a
few gigs. No one knows who they are, as they all wear
donkey masks both on and off stage. For all anyone knows,
they actually just look like donkeys and aren’t wearing
masks at all.
Their frontman is said to have scraped more seamen off
his poop deck than half the regulars at Neighbours, but he
agreed to give me a quote for this article if I bought him
a drink. I print it here without comment: “Goddamned
kids these days and their music. They’re just pushing
buttons and spinning records. Back in my day we stepped on
pedals and turned knobs. REAL knobs!”
My first experience with the Donkeys was more like an
exorcism than a music show. For some reason, they’d didn’t
play any of their songs, and instead just made a bunch of
insane noise while their lead conch shell player hooked
his nipples up to a car battery and screamed obscenities
at the audience. Eventually, the crowd erupted into a near
riot, throwing chairs and pint glasses at the stage until
the band was escorted out the back door. Intrigued, I
bought their self-titled debut album.
The album was recorded below deck on the Craw, and you
can almost hear the stench of dead fish and unwashed sea
hag coochie as soon as you drop the needle. It begins with
the ominously melodic, yet discordant, “Sailors.” The
lead singer may have spent the last 30 years gauging fish
from the briny deep, but she’s still got a voice like a
horny angel. “Castaway,” originally released as a
single accompanying the book “Sartre’s ‘Being and
Nothingness’ For Dummies,” is a ditty describing life
in an era of confused alienation not seen since the
collapse of Hellenistic syncretism. Other classics include
covers of the Marx Brothers’ “Lydia” and, my
favorite, Heart’s “Barracuda.” Though the singer
sounds like he’s taken a cheese grater to his voice box,
this cover still ranks high above the original in both
technical prowess and pure Èlan.
Since no music review would be complete without
comparing the band to other bands, imagine a lobotomized
Nick Cave attacks Tom Waits with a lawn mower and feeds
the remains to rats who are eaten by donkeys who gently
sodomize you with a Christmas tree wrapped in barbed wire,
all in the context of an old Popeye cartoon. They’re
THAT GOOD!
The album is available at Wall of Sound, 315 E Pine St
and through forcedexposure.com.
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