Someone, make it stop! It's hurting me!

Warning: The following may contain naughty words, and more arm-flailing and spittle-flicking than a nickelback cover band or an Andrew Bolt column.

Someone up there (in ManagerLand) must hate me. The other day at work, we got the chance to finally listen to a real CD as opposed to those provided by our workplace: Year old compilation CDs crammed with more ham than the local abattoir. We (i.e. everyone else but me) chose some generic dance compilation: DoofDoof, or Ruining Good Songs By Adding A Dance Beat #42, or something like that. Overriding democratic decision, like the Big Dubya and Iraq, one of the managers chose a CD which I’m thinking they assumed that the kids would be into.

Ladies and Menfolk, the hour-or-so which followed was horrific stuff. For you see, I was forced to listen to hinder *spits*. Btw, that isn’t an unintentional grammatical error you witness. A band (and I use that term extremely reluctantly, in lieu of the term I would prefer to refer to them as: Ear molesterers) like hinder don’t deserve capitalisation (dun, Dun, DUN)

I had originally heard their first single on the radio whilst on my rare excursions to commercial radio. At first I thought, “Oh boy, another nickelback song. Prepare the gas masks to mask the stench of crap music, people”. Research (and some gushing friends) eventually discovered that this was another band. A real band. Not some bad joke; not a nickelback cover band off Australia’s Got (no) Talent to be laughed/heckled/thrown tomatoes at. A legitimate band with visions of narcissistic grandeur (A quote from an interview: "We run on booze and hairspray" Can you say: ‘Wanker’?) (an aside: A disturbing find on their MySpazz page). I wrote them off as a one hit wonder, mainly to keep me sleeping at night knowing that my ears would be assaulted nevermore, and that my eyes would be forever free of their arm-flailing shenanigans.

Then the album came out. Immediately, it looked horrific. Click here for the cover, but basically, it’s a pair of boobs. Not the boobs belonging to a band member (I would be surprised if their interactions with women diverted from Penthouse Stories and “So, how do you like your eggs in the morning? Fertilised?”). I could imagine the typical story of a hinder user: Horny teenage male goes to a record shop. They see the album cover. They immediately think “OMG B0OB1ES!” They immediately purchase the album in this phallus-centric frenzy (jokes for psych/Freud nerds), go home and rip the CD onto their non-specific brand MP3 player whilst their CD player gathers dust. They play the CD expecting music from said boobies. They are disappointed, wondering why the shop assistant put a nickelback CD in place of the boobies.
Basically, I tried to avoid the CD and anything associated with this cheap, possibly STD infected music. It would only make me angry. But then at work, the CD began to play.

That album was the musical equivalent of bowel cancer. It was horrible stuff. Not a trace of originality in the air(waves) whatsoever; just a shitload of hate. It pretty much crossed off a big chunk of the Bad Rock Clichés list:

• More ego than the average Wanker: Check
• All-American guitar solo: Check-Check-One-Two
• More wailing than a Japanese boat off our shores: Oh, yes!
• Gratuitous swearing in order to make the band look ‘OMG ARENT I UBER KEWL!!!!1!!’: O RLY?! YA SRSLY!!!!2@!!
• Lead ‘singer’ ‘sings’ in unintelligible drawl to hide the fact that they can’t put together a decent song: O mais, oui!

That last point I'll need to emphasise with a few choice lyrics: "If it's not perfect I'll perfect it till my heart explodes"; "The break up is worth the make up sex you're givin me/Lets hash it out"; "Let's go home and get stoned/Cause the sex is so much better when you're mad". Set your eyebrows to stunned. Btw, those nuggets of not-gold were all from the first song on the album. And it goes with such respectful lyrics as: "She said she's sorry/With one finger/I said fuck that", and "She said she loved the taste of my oh oh oh." hinder: The official soundtrack to your local Women's Rights meeting.
It's so bad, my crotch hurts. And yes, they wrote their own lyrics. Make of that as you will.

I got the impression that the origins of hinder went something like this:

Record company bigwig #1: “Our sales are dropping. Quickly, we need a band that sounds like nickelback”
Record company bigwig #2: “Well, I did see some buskers at the front of the building covering some nickelback songs”
Record company bigwig #1: “Prepare the contracts and get them up here, now!”

Now, I’ve got a reputation of level-headed opinion writing (click here for one of many examples), and I’ll try to do my best with this aural torture device band. Here we go:

...

Um...

...

They cou- nah…

...

I can only think of one decent thing to say about them. The album seems to portray the project as being, well, very well organised. Listening, I could tell that the guitars and drums were tuned, the microphones were working, the producer was sitting on his chair, the mixing board was flashing lights, the coffee pot was boiling, and the fax machine was on.

Apart from that, I can’t say a good thing about the Ear Molesterers without hating myself afterwards, making me want to play the Emo Violin. This kind of rehashed, microwaved unoriginality is one of the many things wrong with the current music industry. Despite the swelling amount of good music out there (Sarah Blasko, Gotye, Belle and Sebastian, Ray, etc), people still flock around crap like this, partly because commercial radio stations continue to spread the news, like the Hitlers of old, that crap like this is "TEH (sic) AWESOME BUY THE ALBUM AND CHECK OUT OUR BLACKTHUNDERS!!" I could also blame the major record companies, but some people would call what I would potentially type, Defamation.

But I digress. After the CD had dealt it’s final kick to the crotch, I was left scarred for the rest of the night. Immediately after that Hour Of Power-pelvis-thrusting-and-ego-flopping-onto-the-table, respite came in the form of the latest Red Hot Chili Peppers CD. For the first couple of tracks, I was hating the experience, sick of rock music after that Hour Of etc, and I was hating myself for it. Luckily, that story had a happy ending (not that kind, more like that kind), as I soon got into the swing of the good music once again. But I couldn’t erase the scars and stains left by that one crowded hour.

That was from one hour of the nickelback cover band, and I am a rampant flag-flyer for rock music. Imagine the impact of those who purchased the album and are listening to it constantly. Only a large level of brainwashing can cure those poor souls of such horrific assault.

If hell had elevator music for the way down, I reckon this would be it. It’s unoriginal, it hurts my head when I listen to it, and it’s just about every shade of suck possible. Basically, the album violated me. Rough. I’ll jump off my high horse soon, but not after this parting comment: Please, hinder. For the love of all things sacred, please go to your neighbour and borrow a cup or two of talent; and maybe a bottle of originality. Please. And if you could pass that message to nickelback whilst you're copying being 'inspired' by them, that would be shiny.

Addendum: After Goggle searching for some links and research related to hinder *spits*, my Internet died, requiring a reset of the computer. Coincidence, I think NOT!

An ode to those who touch themselves in public at night time

Doof-doof-doof-doof-etc

Little wanker boy
Livin’ in suburbia
His perfectly coiffed hair
Makes him feel holier

Little wanker boy
Lookin’ for some birds
He can’t call them women
The insecure little turd

Little wanker boy
Puttin’ on his top
Pink and pretty and macho
‘Specially with collar popped

Little wanker boy
Puttin’ on his fumes
We call it cologne
He calls it ‘perfume’

Little wanker boy
Wearin’ mirrored glasses
Without anyone knowing
He’s checkin’ out some asses

Little wanker boy
Shufflin’ around the town
Lookin’ ever so fashionable
Wearin’ his pants half down

Little wanker boy
Arrivin’ at the club
Thinks he’s the fo-shiz
He’s looking much the dud

Little wanker boy
Finally gets inside
He goes to the floor
Struts imaginary pride

Little wanker boy
Shakin’ it real hard
Insert a pelvic thrust
Lookin’ like a retard

Little wanker boy
Tries another line
“Oi, wanna root?”
“Get lost, you little swine”

Little wanker boy
Chasin’ up some tail
Forgive them if they run
‘Cos it’s slimy like a snail

Little wanker boy
Circlin’ ‘round some gals
Doesn’t penetrate the group
He frauds success to pals

Little wanker boy
Fails for another night
Drunk on half a bottle
He tries to start a fight

Little wanker boy
Stumblin’ on the highway
His head in the gutter
He purges the night away

Little wanker boy
Back to his yuppie land
He goes into his room
And gives himself a hand
…shandy, that is

Thanks to Brian and Daniel for contributions