MP3 M.O.T.O. - This Corpse Is A Warning
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"MOTO VERITE" recorded on Paul's answering machine. Dec 1989, Chicago, Ill.
Mixed at Sound Ray, Oak Park, Ill., Jan 1990
25 MP3 Songs in this album (68:19) !
Related styles: Rock: Garage Rock, Pop: Pop Underground, Type: Lo-Fi
People who are interested in Guided By Voices Ween White Stripes should consider this download.
Actual 1990 review from CHEMICAL IMBALANCE fanzine:
Must Outwit Them Oysters! The tabloids everywhere are screaming it's a perfect world! Masters Of The Obvious songs are all over the airwaves, the secret leaked, but we remain clueless. Too late to wonder: "Maybe Our Testicles Own us?" missing the point completely. Why are we here? At best, we're Mysterious Ovaries, Testing Options. Not Paul Caporino and Beck Dudley though. They're committed to living for rocking out, like so many others sort of like them on either side stretching out into the musical past and future: Musical Oddities, Truly Other.
And that takes guts, since, despite your petty arguments, to make good music in the '80s-'90s you need to know about the rock (and roll) you want to climb. If you don't know rock music, if you haven't breathed it since you were pushed out, then you're doomed like so many Mud Hop Sub Honey bands of today to mindlessly repeat More Of The Old combinations.
Enter the Masters Of The Obvious on a breath of fresh air, recognizing history and actually psyched to repeat its mistakes. Why? Because they love music, they were weaned under headphones, they think about it all the time, and not just the classics, but the actual mistakes and copies. They've both got a serious soft spot for the tragic last two Husker Du albums! Worse, they thrive on the Bee Gees, and not as corny retro-hip ideology either. They love the Bee Gees!
Alright, yeah, yeah, but what do they sound like? Musty Odors? Try Obviousness! MOTO make ultimate pop songs, but pop that can see its own magnificently flawed and plumy tail (its past). But then MOTO proceeds to put all these songs on the most compressed tiny little tapes they could find, lose all the (fukn incredible) guitar solos in a lo-bias blur, bury every jewel nearly irretrievably, essentially crushing the music's every asset into indistinct sonic ash. And amazingly, I'm not shouting "Bogue!"
Because music that swallows itself up is a pop tradition. All the best bands started by figuring out the rules, then made their greatest music by f*cking with them. The coolest pop realizes that what makes a song catchy is wrapped up in how difficult it is to catch. Pop rules when it teases. I forget who said "Mick Jagger sings the way a stripper takes her clothes off," and I don't even know how many Stones records Beck and Paul have (although Paul loves the Kinks and the Beatles, and Beck's totally into ELO), but "yeah" to the idea that the best way to bring the ear back is by burying the oyster. And if you bury it in extreme underproduction, then you are Paul Caporino, champion of tape hiss and all its deception.
Hiding all the goods is why the best part about listening to MOTO becomes getting all the tiny details that their songs are rife with--little smiles that pop up everywhere like three superfast seconds of "Ahh The Night Before" tossed in for no reason, or a copped Kinks lick suddenly here or there, or two of Paul's ridiculous voices backing up his even funnier lead vocal. And they go out of their way to exploit their own cheesiness--these vocals crack like eggs all over the face, and always to the rhythmous beat of Beck's corny hypertempos.
Anyways, this band is just too cool to waste that "highly polished" produced sound on cheese for no reason. And I know this because I've seen them, and the only time their pace isn't breakneck is when they play heartbreaking softies like the recognized MOTO classic "Month Of Sundays," or the tres chic "Sensuous Banana Eating Contest." Which is just more proof of their guts, why, I've seen MOTO get sh*t whipped at them by Bauhaus-crazed 13-year olds, only to respond by launching into a half-hour of blatant lounge music. And as an insult to injury, they can play really competent lounge music.
After all, this is the band that played to twenty-odd MOTO fanatics last winter, and pumped out every '60s '70s or '80s toon requested of them. Instantly, like some kind of automatic song machine, for hours. This is the band that doesn't stop at nostalgic versions of tiny ditties either: cornerstones of recent MOTO sets have been a cover of "Afterglow," the ultimate moment of psychedelic passion in the Small Faces' career. Even more importantly, they've been doing Fairport Conventions' "[Meet On] The Ledge," the single most exultantly tragic anthem ever written, which has MOTO as '60s existential english folkies, endlessly refraining, "we're gonna meet on the ledge / when the time is up my dear / I'm gonna see all my friends." There's no cheese here, these are two of the most emotionally-charged numbers in the history of rock music, and they play them like they know the heart of rock and roll is still beating, bleeding, bleating, etcetera. So why do they waste time cramming all these millions of perfect pop songs on to their four (2X LP length!) tapes, new album and three (similarly crammed) singles? Mere 2:50, 2:30, 3:05, when they could be regaling in epic U2-isms six ways to bloody sunday, why, why, why? Meet On The Ostrich.
Because they know pop songs are a superficial shell, that can contain untold dementations of feeling and thought. And MOTO are the GODS of pop shells and contents, do you hear? Forget the '80s, forget history, MOTO are the MASTERS of the OBVIOUS and all that implies, do you hear?
Gene Booth, CHEMICAL IMBALANCE
in partnership with CDbaby
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