(Our Blog Break is now over, and what better way to get things back to (ab)normal here at NCS than with a review by Phro of the debut EP by a Finnish “duckgrind” band — Artists Are Idiots. The album is entitled The Subduck Scum Shall Fall.)
Islander sent me this band to check out. I pretty much blew every load I had just based on the name and then dry-came until my balls were bloody. I can’t guarantee you’ll like their music, but only because I can’t guarantee that you’re not a brain-dead jackal.
The cell is dark. It smells of feathers and feces. Naziduck shit has a particularly revolting aroma to it, and they know it. Which is why they always, inevitably, shit on their prisoners during interrogation. They want you to stink of their shit to remind you exactly who you belong to.
But I’m still shit free. I wonder for how long.
In the background, I hear the oddly jovial sound of a brass band taking up their instruments. It’s confusingly cheerful. But who knows if Naziducks can smile? They don’t even have fucking lips. That thought reminds me of the Anti-Naziduck commercials they show before each film at the old dime cinema. It’s always the same. An image of regular ducks flapping about a farm yard at first dashing between cow hooves and mindless chickens. Then, without warning, the next morning the farmer awakes to find the chickens have all be killed in the night, along with the cow, and the ducks are digging mass graves. The farmer turns to run to get his shotgun, but it’s too late. The drakes set upon him, tearing his clothes off, taking turns shoving their long, twirling, rapid-fire erections into his brain via his nasal cavity. “Naziducks: Are They In YOUR Barnyard?” the commercial demands before the movie starts.
Then, I hear the slapping of webbed feet on the cold concrete outside my cell. It’s quiet. Respectfully quiet. The kind of respect that only absolute fear can demand. The kind of respect that only the blood of a million innocents can birth. The kind of respect even the most vicious Naziduck soldier shows to one of them—the MM. The Murderous Mallards.
My back is to the door and I’m literally stapled—through ever inch of flesh—to the wooden chair that’s bolted to the floor. I try to close my eyes in nervousness, but they’ve been stapled open. The staple go right through my eyelids and sink deep into my skull. Fortunately, my brain hasn’t completely processed the pain yet. I think they may have given me some painkillers…but I’m not sure…
I can hear the door swing open nonetheless. It’s as terrifying as the sound of a bullet being chambered in the pitch black of night. Worse. At least with a bullet you know what’s coming. Not with these bastards.
The MM officer walks up behind me and puts a wing on my shoulder. I can’t see it, but it’s hefty in the same way a carcass gets heavy after rigor mortis has set in.
After a long minute of silence, the MM officer speaks.
It is a simple phrase, of that I am sure, but what exactly it could mean I have not the faintest of ideas. I choose to wait. Perhaps it is a test.
I shall not break! I think bravely to myself, knowing it’s a lie.
“QUACK.” It is more forceful this time. More…stern.
“Look, you over-sized bath toy! I don’t know what you’re on ab–” I’m cut short by a sharp slap to the face.
Its feet slap across the floor as it waddles from behind me to the other side of the table. Its crisp, black suit looks closer to matte-painted steel than fabric. The large cap is pulled low over its brow, just enough room for its eyes to bury deep into my soul.
“Quack, quack quack. Quack quack quack! QUAAAAAAAACK!” It shouts at me as if I’d been caught trying to deflower its daughter. As if I’d ever been interested in the winding, labyrinthine vagoo of a filthy duck.
I make a show of not being impressed and try to shrug my shoulders. The staples prevent even this small movement.
“What’dya want, webby? Go ahead, show me your duck face.” I stick my lips out and cross my eyes.
That was probably the worst idea I’ve had since my plane was shot down over Duckover. The MM officer leaps over the table, slamming his absurdly sized bill into my face. *CRACK!* It feels like a few cheek bones are broken.
“Fuck you!” I scream at the duck. I know I probably shouldn’t antagonize ‘im, I figure he can’t understand me anyway.
“Oh, vould you shat ap!” The accent is distinctly Duckan, but intelligible. The MM officer has once again disappeared from view.
“You can speak English?”
“Joo can’t speek za Ducken?” he asks me derisively.
The MM officer has disappeared from my view. I try to look around, but I can’t move.
“Hey, look, I don’t talk Duckshit or whatever the fuck you call it, and I got nothing to tell you anyway.”
“Who saiz zat I vant you to talk? YOU MUST BE PUNISHET UNTIL YOU SCREAM AND CRY! IT IS MY PLEAJURE!”
In the background, I can hear a chorus of furious ducks quacking in unison, their voices cracking and quacking like a room of stiff, horny bukkake participants hopped up on Viagra and crack. The sound of guitars and drums churning out hefty, primal beats fills the air with a maniacally festive yet oppressive taste.
The MM officer suddenly leaps, out of nowhere, onto my lap. His eyes are bulging and red. I quiver to think of what horrible poison that must be sprinting through his veins.
“ARE YOU READY FOR A GOOD QUACKING, YOU QUACKING HUMAN!”
He thrusts his pelvis forward and his duck dick shoots out as fast as a bullet, twisting and turning through the air like an arrow spiraling towards its target. I try to flinch, but the staple hold me in place as the 20 cm monstrosity slams into my nose, wrenches its way into my brains and sprays duck cum.
As everything starts fading to black, the world crashing in like squashed eggshells, the MM officer’s gleeful quack echos in my ears…
Basically, it’s kinda like getting stapled to a wooden chair and then nostril fucked by a Uberdente.
Ben C (Church of the Riff) sent me a link to the Artists Are Idiots Bandcamp page. I sent it to Phro. The rest is history. The songs are free.
Artists Are Idiots include the following statements on their Bandcamp page: “We’re not rascist or fascists. If Ducks combined with Nazism are not funny to you, please go elsewhere. Many ducks were harmed making this extended play digital record. Please don’t buy, if you want ducks to have a decent life.”
Here’s the music:
I KNOW NOTHING!!!!!
Pretty groovy. Not sure how “grind” this is supposed to be – but pretty groovy. The lyric-less vocals feels nice too – somewhat like Fantomas.
Wonder why they tagged it as “pornogrind” though. Perhaps it is a reference to your story from behind enemy lines, Phro?
I’m not sure why it got called pornogrind, either. But I think it fits the ethos of the music, if not the actual music itself.
this is pretty genius. i feel like i’ve been waiting my whole life for a metal/grind band to come out with donald duck vox.
I know *I* have been waiting for just such a thing.