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Billy Joel singing Moving Out. "You should never argue with a crazy ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma..."
Sage advice. Ominous words. Starcross these with maybe Satan plucking on his own pubic hair and there you have it, the sound of Daemien Frost. Words like viscceral, bionic and opaque sound good when someone clever says them, The 'Frost have no time for that.
Four men, half goat, Drummer Dave Hag has the lithe body of a gay dancer and all the humour of a Levellers song. Watch him drum like he was forcing children to work down a shaft mining pure adulterous evil for use in his ego-cannon. Be afraid children, this man thinks he knows the score.
Mark Macmanus plays the bass. The high end bass, like the sound of many kittens being run over, or evil whistles cursing a manky wind. Stare into his eyes, there. Gaze on nothing.
Greg Barret plays the bass, the low end bass, as nature intended. Like the lumbering carburetor of a truck designed only for killing, like the bloated entrails of eviscerated demagogues. Likes a pint and looking into the middle distance.
Never Got Layde is the lover of the band, all crafty fingering and whispered promises of filthy amour, skirting lasciviously around the fret board, uninventing music. Primordial, fearful, the grace of a moribund cow facing extinction. The humane killer of discordance. Dance? He can't dance.
Together all of a couple of years, and already an album under their belt, the Frost belie their idiocy with proliferation's. Corpus Daemo released in 2001, is the I can't believe it's not butter of the nod makers and frat factories. This music should be good, so atrocious are it's influences.
Dara "Dip" Higgins, 24/01/03.