Release Date: 09.28.07
Welcome to the Prinzhorn Dance School for especially special students, appropriately named after master quack Dr. Hans Prinzhorn, a slippery script writer who nabbed artistic goods from his brainly challenged patients, all of whom contributed hypnotic marvels to this thud of weird.
Recorded in cottages and barns in Devon and Sussex, mixed by DFA in New York City, this self-titled bang of bodacious outrageousness is engaging and slightly erotic, like being suckered into a racy television commercial for a product that has nothing to do with the sticky set of bronze buns busting out of a "sales person", bent over a truck, pouring water on their hair with a garden hose.
As far as the ears ring, a massive lack of extensive guitars or advanced rhythm can be heard on this performance piece, set in the sweaty hot showroom of Andy Warhol's Factory, squeezed between the Exploding Plastic Inevitable and Valerie Solonos' S.C.U.M. manifesto. Each quick rush fires solid like a vintage Velvet Underground shot of downtown junk with gear supplied by the priest William S. Burroughs.
"Worker" is a demented bark of speech support for the farmer, the laborer, the dying man in the low paying field. "You Are The Space Invader" is a comet ride inside a vibrating tunnel of bass that grabs the high score for sure on this startling game. "Crash, Crash, Crash" is an effective public service announcement to prevent underage drinking, how could it be anything but?
Although I really didn't get Prinzhorn Dance School, I got it. Because what's not to get, only everything, right? Take lots with drugs then you too will get it too, you will, will you? I mean, there's nothing to get. These dudes don't "do" interviews and seem to be invisible from the naked eye. The story of Prinzhorn Dance School matches their sound in equal levels of absurdity.
"You Are The Space Invader" (live 05/07)