The music of Custard Wally reminds me of my first anal
intercourse: it's loud and it stinks. It stinks of joy. The
joy of allowing oneself to be as stupid as humanly possible
- and believe me, it's quite a remarkable undertaking, for
most people would rather sound smart than outright idiotic.
To give up self-respect to such a degree as the Custards
dare to do takes more than just courage: it's the kind of
self-sacrifice I thought only those Tibetan monks capable of
who'd rather shiver for fifteen years buck naked in an icy
cave, high up in the Himalayas, feeding exclusively on
mountain goat droppings, instead of spending their time
sipping cocktails in the company of lovely naked ladies aboard
a luxury yacht, sailing the Southern Seas, just because
that's what their congregation wants as an example. If the
audience wants to watch a bunch of slobbering retards making
idiotic noises on the stage, so they could identify
themselves with the band, then Custard Wally just gives them
exactly what they want.
They are shameless humanists, true
people's people, down to their Cinzano-soaked, pasta stuffed
dago guts. Real rotten tomato and spoiled goat cheese fed
Italian homies they are, perfectly fit in every
roach-infested, dead fish smelling, repo men hangout,
snot-decorated pizza joint in the worst parts of town. I can
listen to their records only while defecating, but then they
really work. Their music brings out the worst from any human
who often fell victim to constipation. Just totter out to
the loo, put on any of their CDs, max the volume and within
seconds your gases-tortured system will be flushed out of
all that poisonous, clotted, dried out shit which blocked
your bowels ever since Old Blue Eyes kicked the bucket after
unsuccessfully trying thru his way too lengthy lifetime to
induce world-wide trots, or provoke at least a decently
sounding series of polyphonic wet farts from the widest
audience imaginable.
Custard Wally sucks, but they suck hard
and they suck good. They suck past, present and future out
of you, until you remain nothing but an empty, wrinkled
leather bag, which can be then filled either with hot air,
so you would fly like Pink Floyd's pig, or pumped full with
lukewarm, slightly salty minestrone soup, which would make
you sing arias like some Pennsylvanian Caruso overdosed on
second mortgage home equity loans.
