Belt your stupid pop hits in another direction, there, singer of songs, because I’m listening to Cardboard Prince in a corner all by myself with a big silly grin on my face. I don’t know if you know Robert Ridley-Shackleton or not, but if you don’t better getcha head on straight, because he has more releases than you and your band and that other band you opened for combined. No band needed. Ridley-Shackleton is bigger than Kanye, honestly, he says so himself, and he sings over noise, just noise, and his voice is your pop song ground through a nightmare of processors until there is no song and nothing else but ol’ Robert’s daily doings, musique concrèted properly and with great disdain for rational thought. I’m marrying Peter Weller, dating Terminator, and loving Robocop, I think, but I’m not sure if that’s really the right answer and getting kind of sick thinking about it. Basically, Robert is menacing us like David Lynch would if Lynch had the balls to get all up in our grills and make Angelo Badalamenti music noises with his mouth realllll close to a microphone (see, e.g., “2 Bad”). “C’mon Kitty” is music. “Download Ure Memes” is terrifying music. “Mother Sublime” is music. Everything else is Eraserhead on acid (well, acid again) in 1993. Each sound pops and scrapes and fillets imaginary body parts that don’t exist in this dimension. Lops em right off. And my copy of this was recorded over a Children’s Talking Bible tape, like it bloody oughta. Were they all? I hope so. I hope yours was. I hope you’re paying attention and that you’ve subscribed to the madness. What happened to us? Why does this make sense?
Cardboard Club
-- Ryan Masteller
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