The simple packaging belies a hodgepodge of goodies within. It reminds me of a brown paper-wrapped secret that arrives in my mailbox without fanfare. Hmmm, what's hiding inside? Could it be a skin mag? The Anarchist's Cookbook? Balloon Animal Fetishes for Dummies? Martha Stewart's Living? Lock myself in the bathroom, turn on the sink, tear open that bit of naughtiness and what do I find? Illegal Art culture jamming it old school-style. Damn, I think I'm in love.
In this third installment of the Illegal Art series, a smattering of artists take aim at the gizmo-hawkers and widget-makers who foist conspicuous consumption on us at every turn. Building upon a groundwork laid by Negativland in such releases as A Big 10-8 Place, the artists collected here start with a simple ingredient: an ad man's rap, be it infomercial banter, a jingle or a tag line. Then each artist sends the message through his own meat grinder. After much manipulation, looping and editing, out comes a one hell of a sausage. While the original message is still recognizable, its form is completely mutated, yet now strangely palpable.
Some artists, such as Orange Head, cannibalize bits and pieces of advertisements to compile a clever mix that somehow mines value out of what would otherwise be annoying commercial crap. While not easy listening music by any stretch of the imagination, these cuts will please listeners who crave a little challenge with their tunes. Think of the jewels Negativland has crafted from the detritus of everyday life. By weaving otherwise annoying and forgettable audio pollution into pointed satire or surprising music, these bands show their own Midas touch.
Other tracks, like Jorg Piringer's "The Avalanche," don't go for cleverness as much as eerie soundscapes. Listening to this comp while I toil away at the ol' day job created a welcome and almost imperceptible counter to my office's white noise. At times, I found myself lulled by the odd swirl of voices, chirps and contorted noise. These cuts of anguish and frustration, in which a sentence is endlessly manipulated so that it can never finish its thought, give voice to my otherwise silent brooding. It's the kind of music you might play if you were to commit some serious corporate sabotage...while wearing a Ronald McDonald suit.
