The Unholy 2 debut still feels like a specter in my hand, a figment of my imagination, even though I’ve had it in possession over 24 hours and listened to it about four times it’s nearly invisible. It might be the same way the cum-guzzlers feel after a long, sloppy, night with Lutzko the Saudi Prince. In theory this 7” was never supposed to happen, live shows were never supposed to take place, an actually band was never supposed to be – instead of a tragically hip implosion though, the Unholy 2 have survived, and the product of that union, that fortitude and perseverance, defies the schlock rock and public displays of horn-dogged narcissism that preceded it. But if you looked close enough, you would have seen that Lutzko has been an auteur from the beginning. It was all part of one elaborate joke, only now we have to take serious notice.
Remember how he would blow his wad in those nihilistic early performances that usually ended in chaos? That was to make you believe he had no scruples. Those antagonistic, hate-filled (but hilarious) diatribes from the stage? Well, now he’s been given the right to say just about anything within ten feet of baby rape. You might blush or bat an eye, but you pretty much regard what comes out of his mouth as the all-encompassing-anti-establishment abstract gospel, with a pair of girl jeans to match. The fact that his vision started as a duo – drummer Bo Davis banging on junk – and now has bloomed into a formidable trio with Adam Smith just as much a part of the action (blasting altimeters and sonic buzz around the shitstorm), proves actual practices might take place. At first the low-brow art-damage was nearly unbearable AMREP copy, these days, any appearance and they’re the dark-horse marquee. It was part of the plan, a sleeper cell terrorist plot to burn down the beach from within.
And now? Now you get a tangible piece of art for putting up with this trash. What a beautiful piece of art it is too, every little detail taken care of by the hands of county’s favorite masochist – the nervous, off-center, type on the label, the carefully procured clip art of a naked Kate Moss (after a coke) Xeroxed with just the right amount of fuzz, the absence of a name, a title, or even a Columbus Discount logo on the cover. Herein, it is all about the entire package – not just the brazen slab of music.
Even back when they were named a Band to Watch, “Kutter” was a staple, the song about girls who can’t cook, can’t fuck, just slice. On wax it burns - magic stab wounds blown out, the Jim Jones funeral march towards the gas chambers. In the studio the band can thrive on endless scraps of gristle and scummy noise, Smith’s rightly choreographed phase waves match the atonal grind of Lutzko and Davis’ clatter like a wizard in penance.
The b-side “Porkys” follows a similar two-chord formula, and it should, just now it’s sped in the mode of Suicide on 45, a bit indie even. This, until now pretty much unheard, is the symbol of progression (Masons Unite!), and goes back to the role of Lutzko as director. “Porkys” is a cock-out concoction of guerilla film in aural form – 80’s slasher flicks with Teen soundtracks, a documentary about Steve Albini finally getting head, a dash of French New Wave leaning into the dive bar, Putney Swope in Technicolor, and Skinemax Snuff for good measure. Maybe I’m only adding to the mythology, I hope, because it simply makes it increasingly more fun. Enter at your own risk.
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