Lots of things can be said about Teaser mastermind Ben Waller’s lyrics: they are meant simply to aggravate, he explores taboo ideas to make you think, he’s just drunk. “Points of view are very hard to understand….all human life must be destroyed.” I don’t think he is just trying to fuck with people, they could do that a lot easier and even rhyme. But yes, the Teasers are fucking with you, in order to move things forward. Exploring taboo ideas in music means you are talking more about culture than just “my parents suck.” So that’s an easy statement, too. Waller uses lots of non-PC words in his songs but if you see the cover of the album, an old political pulp-sized book about racism in England, you might think you are going to get a Zinn-Chomsky breakdown of language and politics (nothing wrong with that, by the way). But this is a Lenny Bruce vibe, using language that can sound funny on stage but you take meaning home. No, I think Wallers does what a songwriter does: sings about his world. He’s a thoughtful writer and that means he is not going to tell you how to fix the world or what his lyrics mean. And Lord, people hate it when you don’t tell them exactly what a song means. He sings about race, music, women, sex, war, drinking, government and even about his own music. He is observational. Not in a “I don’t hate others, I’m just proud” bullshit way. That’s for skins and collegians who analyze too much. Not even in a “I hate people” way. I think more of a “I hate people who don’t think” way. And singing about your world is the core of what country, blues, rap, and rock and roll should be about in the first place. On the music end, this is the Teaser’s slow to medium paced melancholy twang, super plucky, as opposed to the faster version of the band. For thirteen years now, the Teasers have keyed into a childlike fascination of simple sounds that work together, bump and thump and whirr, and process it into pure charm. It sweeps you up and carries you through the whole album. Waller’s voice has that old deadpan country-drinker, forced-singer whine that you can dive into. I do think he drinks a lot, though.

Blood Visions is the new album by Jay Reatard. Jay Reatard is mildly famous for being in the Lost Sounds and dating Dorkus’ dream girl, Alicja Trout. (Dorkus is a reclusive Asian doctor living in one of the Carolina’s. He has interesting views on music, fueled by unpredictable mood swings and a three-thousand-strong record collection.) I like Blood Visions for two reasons: 1.) the cover art is really good, and 2.) the music found on the disc is—in the words of my fellow coworker Brad—“banging.” See, I’m a sucker for album art. Blood Visions captures Jay living out two of his childhood fantasies—namely reenacting the prom scene from the movie Carrie and duplicating the traumatic experience of childbirth. I applaud him for being so bold and honest. In the event that I release a solo album, I promise to be as daring as Jay. (I’ve always had a thing for wearing adult-sized diapers and gulping Comet sink cleaner.) So as stated above, the music on Blood Visions is banging. Blood Visions reminds me a lot of the Adverts first record, which of course is a good thing. (Jay sounds uncannily like a Brit, but he’s from Sun Records City, Tennessee.) Musically, it has that ‘76 (not to be confused with ‘77) guitar sound which, thankfully, is not at odds with a “modern sounding” production, something anyone with soul will avoid. Jay could be a tough guy if he wanted to, but he seems secure with his manhood—enough to place Bryan Ferry-like vocals over his group’s caustic music; which has that certain grating sound Eno pulled from John Cale; you know the shit that got him fired from Roxy Music. Blood Visions, like Wire’s Pink Flag, is over before you know it, packed with fifteen songs clocking in at less than thirty minutes. So in closing, this record has an album cover that Sigmund Freud would die for and some of the best music you’ll hear this year (probably one of the top-ten releases of 2006). I mean, you won’t read about Blood Visions in Rolling Stone (cuz David Fricke’s too busy jerking The Killers off to sleep), but you can take it from me, kids—it’s a real winner!