Michael Ferentino and Mangabros have merged to form Clintflick. Clintflink's efforts represent (at least to my ears and mind's eye) the summer ... the advent and core of a raw, raucous summer.
The album, Rawk and Roll, captures the season with harsh sincerity, each phase conjuring scenes and moods that tap a palpable and sweltering sector.
"CF Skrog" is the prodding instigator, where a bodacious beat and dialing murmur lures one into the allegorical flames. Ferentino can be heard within the track's heart, singing slices of "Dancing in the Streets." But this cover doesn't stoke the fun of Jagger and Bowie, but rather an ominous descent, a troubling haze, a wretched worry and maybe, just maybe, the advent of war.
This belligerent surge is pushed even further by the brilliant segue, "Stiltedhumpskin," a bouncing tune that begins with a chic groove, but the settlement is Boorman's Deliverance, Hill's The Warriors and Carpenter's Assault on Precinct 13. A modern western opens, of merciless voyage and attack, of frightful fortification and switchblade rap. It's a disguised, bemoaning, horror movie mounted through the trenches of (un)reality.
"Eunuchopia" is that shivering reduction that comes when one begs for lenience. Within the forbidding, sacrificial, guitar chords, one swaps virility for a tight, fetid corner, watching, waiting like a scared rabbit, until the dark dust clears.
"Hummer Infinitrum...Vacuum Mob" represents the dawn, but even though the sun shines, it just beams more mechanized doom. Ferentino whines; the sounds grind. The heat increases, and to worsen matters, the atmosphere is now mobbed and militarized, with each opposing philosophy discharged from every torturous angle.
The weather report predicts a "Mushroom Slider." The heat has slid under one's skin, and now beeps and curls in one's head. One exists as a streak of dripping perspiration, exploding/imploding high and low, the result of a tough transmission spewed from an uncaring, bureaucratic blow. One hears a foreign tongue. Nothing makes sense, and yet everything does. It's the end of the world, and it sure as hell won't be fine.
One searches for help, for clarity, and lo and behold, there she stands at the alley of Madness & Divine, a Corman-concocted beauty who's swaying configuration offers something cool, but her head--her damn face--has melted away! It's too late! The "Wasp Girl" has passed her bait, and the result is venereal hell.
One can only hobble away, itching to an adopted "Germ Song." Yes, one is infected, and the unceasing sun bakes that infection in. Taunting babies cry, encouraging the electrified, bass-bound sting to spread, but who (beyond its evident host) wants the magnanimous sweat?
In the inadvertent "New Church of the Anti-Everything," the answer rings clear. Summer is an all-contemptuous virus that everyone must catch. One can only bow before it, not as a eunuch or warrior, but rather as a common victim with a deep, parched heart. And with this, Clintflick's chanting, nihilistic hymn thuds through the slumlord halls of fear, instilling another scorching day and inside that, another thirsty prison.
There's no better way to experience the summer than consuming Rawk And Roll. Make it your seasonal soundtrack, your blistering adage, your survivalist creed:
https://orcd.co/rawkandroll
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