Rancid – Let The Dominoes Fall
Warner Bros. Records (Oy!)
Reviewed by Chip Norman
Ever wonder what the old creeps in Rancid talk about while getting dressed up in their little costumes? I wager they either quietly weep while avoiding eye contact, or go on and on about how “punk” they still are. Given that crying causes mascara to run, I have to assume the latter, that Rancid still fancy themselves “Punk Rockers.” And that’s fine, so long as “Punk Rocker” translates to ska-loving retard who chokes down cheeseburgers until he blacks out.
No one actually “punk” would let themselves be called “punk,” anyway. Not so long as dorks like Lars Frederiksen and Tim Armstrong drop the “P-bomb” on every weiner journalist around. According to the Epitaph website, “The Los Angeles Times hailed Rancid as “one of the most popular and enduring of American punk bands,” while Rolling Stone called them “brutally exuberant.” And that’s fine, Rancid. It’s just a jim dandy. You can keep that four-letter word. We’ve bought your act like SPIN. The kool-aid in your hair isn’t a marketing gimmick, and fat, white meatheads playing ska are totally punk. You win. But now that we agree you’re The Punk Rockers, shouldn’t you still be worrying about that whole Rock n’ Roll, thing?
I suspect Lars keeps hollering about punk through that clog of cheese-fries he calls a mouth so that he won’t be asked any difficult questions about good music. Just what good is being “Punk as fuck” if Lady GaGa has more Rock n’ Roll in her left nut than you’ve had in thousands of shitty records. And do the army of date-rapers and bed-pissers “skanking” with you at the Warped Tour help your case? Did you really need to record your latest street-punk epic at George Lucas’s Skywalker Ranch? Is Rancid playing Jar Jar Punx in a damn Star Wars movie? And how about being in bands with Blink 182? Awesome way to fly your freak flag at the man, that.
Cobwebs are growing on more than Rancid's elbows. OY! OY!
Rancid’s had since the early nineties to find something useful to do with a guitar. That’s time enough, poseurs. You’re forty-three, fat, embarrassed, and making wigger songs. “I Ain’t Worried” isn’t even good by white rap standards. Good Charlotte is kicking your “street-punk” asses at wigger rapping. That means the jig is up. It’s time to pack it in. Lose the Halloween get-up; you look like the “punks” that kidnapped the President’s daughter in 80′s Nintendo games. Get rid of the hypocritical corporate sponsorships. And enough with the awful tatoos.
Seriously Lars, if you keep face-painting yourself like a circus geek, your kids are gonna go school-shooter. Did you really need SKUNX tatooed on your forehead? Why not cut to the chase and go with a big, crying dick, instead? I understand you never had much hope for that trucker taint of a head, but the silly tats don’t help. Sure, facial tatoos look tough on a gang Mexican, but those cats don’t play ska. If they did, they wouldn’t be gang Mexicans. They would be in Rancid.
Anal Cunt said it well:
“If Kenny G. had a mohawk, he wouldn’t be punk.
If Yanni had dumb tattoos, he wouldn’t be punk.
If Garth Brooks pierced his nose, he wouldn’t be punk.
If Liberace, sounded like the Clash, he wouldn’t be punk.
Rancid sucks and the Clash did too.”
Word. Screw you dorks and screw Skaperation Ivy.
P.S. Leave Booker T alone, jerks.
