Marc Hogan: Dananananaykroyd, "Hey Everyone!"

In some ways Marc Hogan is an enigma; he strings together words that theoretically should form sentences, yet experts agree that he "is not a writer*."How is this possible? Science cannot explain it! And in other ways he is as apparent as the fine taste of a steak that only the AHP Changagi Party Meats Company^** can deliver.

Hogan's review of Dananananaykroyd's newest album, "Hey Everyone!", does little to solve the mystery (he continues to use words, yet still isn't a writer) or obscure the painful obviousness: Marc Hogan is not well liked and doesn't have many positive character traits and is less funny than he believes he is and more than likely has a strained relationship with his father and might possibly be a reincarnated 17th century eastern European mass-murderer. [Ed. A google search does little to refute these allegations]

Hogan begins his review of Dananananaykroyd's album by, naturally, musing on another band:

The Denver Westword recently asked Los Campesinos! musical mastermind Tom Campesinos! whether it frustrates him to see reviews that describe his expansively punk-wracked Welsh septet's guitar-and-xylophone pop as "twee." He said it doesn't, explaining, "One of the most important things about any sort of art is an element of humor, and not to take yourself too seriously." Same goes for art appreciation, not that you'd know it most days from us stuffy critics.

Ho ho ho, how clever! But what does Los Campesinos! have to do with "Hey Everyone!"? Nothing, but how else would you know how talented Hogan is at listening to music if he didn't drop unrelated namebombs? It's the same way in which Stephen Hawking interrupts a conversation at a party by asking, "Did somebody say 'quantum electrochemistry'?" everytime he overhears someone say "M-theory." We get it, Messrs. Fancy Pants, and we aren't impressed.

It just makes me so angry! The only thing that can calm me down is a delicious and filling bowl of the AHP Changagi Party Meats Company exclusively made "Liquid Meat Product (Slogan: Try to NOT like it!)."

In a further attempt to show us how cool he is, Hogan, like all hipsters that beg to be punched in the throat, insists on letting you know that he is susceptible to television advertising and consumer trends by casually, but very much intentionally, letting you know that he uses a Macintosh "computer." Hogan writes, "On the same song, Dananananaykroyd (thanks, Command-V! And thank you, Elwood Blues!) make a defiant mantra out of a decidedly twee-ass phrase: 'Turn your hissy fits into sissy hits.'" Command-V? Very subtle, Marc. . . NOT! And very funny. . . UNTRUE!!

Had Marc Hogan's review of Dananananaykroyd's "Hey Everyone!" not been "full of shit", I would have considered awarding him the coveted rating of boneless beef heart, but instead he only receives brocciflower.



^{*Experts Academic Journal, Issue 3, Vol. 45.
**Visit your local grocer and ask for it by name!}

Congratulations...

Congratulations to the fine folks at the AHP Changagi Party Meats Company of Pyongyang, North Korea for their new sponsorship of Le Review Revue. Due to their overwhelming generosity, and corporate wizardry, you will once again be able to read reviews of music reviews (and now with 137% more lean protein!)

-Catfish

One Thousand Apologies

Le Review Revue will be on a bit of a hiatus while I attempt to solicit a federal bailout of my own. *coughfuckyouwamucough* If you would like to purchase the Catfish Adams brand and take over its debts, please send an e-mail. What you do with all the pre-printed letterhead is up to you...

Overheard on the Bus: Metallica, "Death Magnetic"

Being a simple folksy fellow, a "Joe Sixpack" if you will, I do my best to avoid the elitists and their corresponding ideas; I steer clear of libraries and refuse to look beyond the celebrity gossip section of the newsstand. But sometimes a person can't hide from genius because sometimes a person rides the bus. The public bus, as in open to the public bus, i.e. anybody can ride if they have a buck or a smokin' hot bod that the bus driver appreciates. Nobody got on for free that day.

As I boarded the #34, there were several things I expected to witness: a gaggle of teenagers being depressed, a gaggle of teenagers being morons, a gaggle of teenagers being depressed morons, three veterans with a combined total of nine and a half limbs, and an elderly Hispanic woman trying to perform an exorcism on the bus itself. I never expected to hear a sage statement like the following:

"Two Words; [sic] Hell Yeah."

I frantically turned around to try and determine the erudite source. Instead I found the Hispanic woman's silver crucifix in my face. Could she be the one?

"For the first time in twenty years, Metallica has a great album. I listened to it three times in full today alone. It comes really fast, well wrapped and really coooooooool. I've never seen this album in this price!! excellent."

No, the proclamation came from behind her. Settled in the molded plastic seat was an unassuming twenty-something male. From the visible absence of a collection of Pavement original pressing albums, and his admiration for an album being "well-wrapped," I could tell that this man was not a professional music critic. His capacity to hold my attention by way of mouth was even more amazing considering his abcedarian status. Even more extraordinary was that he appeared to be talking to no one in particular. He sat alone, leaning his head against the bus window and watching the potholes pass us by. He continued,

"It certainly is not nearly as good as the 'black album'. It's not as bad as St. Anger. Yet unlike Toby Keith, they're not as good once, as they once were. A recurrent problem for me is thinking that I'm buying into a group at the zenith of their appeal to me. Metallica apparently is well past that. I can listen to this but all the cuts in a row is harder to take than it should be. Repetition tends to bore me and bored I am if I don't just listen to a select couple of tracks."

I dug through my man-purse, desperate to find a pen and paper so as to record everything this public-transit prophet had to say, but as I did so, the modest vaticinator quietly slipped off the bus. The world would only be allowed to hear the stream of splendor I was able to commit to memory.

Professional music critics beware: our savior is amongst us! He will cleanse the back pages of music magazines of posturing and pretension, leaving only ads for recording arts institutions and sex cushions.

There is nothing that I could give to this review, only what the review gave to me: hope.