This could easily be the muzak for the peephead generation, peepheads being the street name given to those whose leisure time is spent abusing themselves with PCP, known for its ability to destroy depth perception (among other things). Peepheads often hallucinate themselves into a complete state of vegetable matter and The Modern Dance by Pere Ubu is definitely plant music of the most divine order. No matter how long you listen to this record, you won�t be able to fathom all of its various textures and implications; it takes up a banner of chaos and turns it from disorder for the sake of disorder into something close to disorder for the sake of structure and structure for the sake of complete creation.
Lead growler Crokus Behemoth takes the voice and rearranges it, taking himself from the depths of demon rock crooning to the candescent, messianic glowings of a leader--a veritable peepoid dictator. His voice angulates, distorts, strangulates and disembowels as he ambles through songs like �Life Stinks,� an exercise in inarticulate inebriation, and the cinematic �Humor Me,� an excursion into the physical mentality of Leather Face from Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
The crux of this act, Behemoth not only sings, but also blocks--as demonstrated by �Sentimental Journey.� Taking in all elements of avant-garde absurdity and free form jazz improvisations, he shuffles between guttural moaning and smashing glass as the band banshees away behind him. The song builds into a drunkard�s walk and ends in the kind of sonic static one usually equates with the soothing feelings accompanying electroshock therapy and thorazine baths--if you're really living inside the woodwork, this song is quite funny.
All of these peeptunes have equal rank, but some are just so ultra-mundane and extraordinarily bizarre they need to be mentioned. �Non-Alignment Pact� is an optical pop song which easily fits into the agonized vision of urban love and estrangement--listen to it and you can actually conjure up images of Monica Vitti picking flowers in front of some grimy Chevy plant in Cleveland. The title toon, an anthem for peephood, is aural minimalist art transmorgified into chaotic rock �n� roll, and �Street Waves� and �Chinese Radiation� just hang around as nuclear dreams spreading like sonic venom throughout all the cracks and fantasies served up on this album. �Laughing� is just plain odd. It has that kind of fragmented slant which makes you doubt everything.
These scat-caked rhymes and rhythms take The Modern Dance into the realm of murky musical progress like no other record of the past few years; every song is a metal flaked tapestry of timeless chants tethered tightly together with a manic regression and tension which constantly threatens to waft off into the dangerous voids many of us are simply afraid to explore. It is raw, wavage and polyoptic, capable of giving each listener an experience they won�t soon forget. I like this record because it gives me nightmares. And remember: Support PEEPDOM, because it is the future.
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