Five Finger Death Punch
Five Finger Derpy Doo
If you’re wondering why it’s taken us so long to review this album, it’s because there simply wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to make listening to it seem like a good way to spend an hour. Despite putting it off with more pleasurable activities like trips to the ‘get kicked in the balls shop’ and countless plunges down the sandpaper flumes into the local swimming pool full of salt, finally I had to face up to my duty: My duty to you, my duty to the world and my duty as a miserable turd.
Chances are, American Capitalist will achieve the incredible feat of making you retch before you even hear it. The name lets you know that these good ol’ boys are proud not to be some sort of horrible Iraqi capitalist, and the cover indicates that this has granted them unlimited access to a yellow Lamborghini and two hoes. Pimpin’. When you do hear it, as a right thinking person you will move from the cover-induced dry heaves to the novel experience of ‘laughter vomit’, where your fits of disbelieving giggles are rudely interrupted by projectile sickness as Ivan Moody’s lyrics swerve from the hilariously deluded to the jaw droppingly nauseating.
American Capitalist (the song) is yet more of the piss poor WWE entrance music that for some reason it is still legal to distribute, with a tragically out dated smug-a-long chorus hastily slapped after every cringe-inducing, gruffly rapped verse. Somewhere around this point you’ll probably have the first spasms of all consuming anger; the searing flashes of light, the shooting headache and the clenched fists that are such an integral part of the Fee Fee Dee Pee listening experience. Under And Over It is the same exact song made marginally more turd by Ivan Moody getting all antsy about being regularly being called a prick and proclaiming that he’s so ‘big time’ now that it must just be people playa-hating. But! The clever lyricist lets you know that actually he’s also exactly the same as his fans and that it’s really their Lamborghini and hoes on the cover too! What a genius.
The Pride is a lot like Billy Joel’s We Didn’t Start The Fire written from the perspective of a drunk, brain damaged redneck who is proud of such outstanding American innovations as the NRA, NASCAR and Playboy. It’s also a lot like getting your fingernails ripped out. I know I have said this in the past, but honestly, TRULY, this is absolutely the worst song I have ever heard, beating any other contenders that I have nominated during my reviewing career by a truly astronomical distance. This monumental defecation has to be experienced to be believed, though I solemnly warn you that listening to it may cause you to involuntarily shit out your own lungs with rage. About 17 seconds in I was swinging punches into the air to try and kill the music but it just kept on getting past my feeble defences and into my ears, the insides of which were already in excruciating pain from the repeated impact of my brain attempting to escape from the nearest exits.
Just as you think that the misery has plateaued, you find out that there’s a couple of ballads on here too. Remeber Everything could be the work of Nickelback. Coming Down could be Staind. They have acoustic guitars so that drunk hillbillies know it’s time to down their beer and grab their girlfriend by the tits so they can have a nice romantic moment together, and they have lyrics about wishing things could change and how it’s all caving in so morons can appear all vulnerable. Aww, bless, under Ivan Moody’s meat-headed, wife-beating, diminished responsibility exterior there is a sensitive side after all, and he’s not afraid of expressing it gruffly in his little white vest and shorts.
Don’t expect much more variation than this, however. It amazes me how they managed to make so few ideas stretch across the remaining 7 songs. Some of them are about revenge, others about having the last laugh and a couple are about eventually getting the upper hand. If this subject matter is a little too diverse for you then you’ll be reassured by the fact that they are literally all the same terrible Nu-metal song garnished with one or more of – horrendous crooned singing, hilarious growls or the worst Vanilla Ice style rapping since Vanilla Ice himself telling you how much he hates everyone and how terrible life is. There is less talent on show here than in a Chernobyl nightclub.
There is a remote chance that American Capitalist is a genius-level concept album conceived and written with the express intention of making me murderously angry. However, on the assumption that it isn’t, I can say that if you like this, then you, Sir, are worse than a Juggalo. If you can relate to its base level messages of overcoming adversity then you truly have never faced any adversity whatsoever in your life and you should wait until you turn 14, try to grow some pubes, and realise that your mum shouting at you is not the system keeping you down. If this is the uplifting soundtrack that gets you through a tough breakup then I hope you get knob cancer. It’s just a shame that we do indeed live in a capitalist society where 90,000 morons can buy this in one week and they are not ruthlessly hunted down and beaten to death by eugenics squads so that they can’t bring their horrible Five Finger Death Punch-loving children into the world. I hope something terrible happens to this band. I hope they die in the most comical way possible – perhaps their newly acquired heavy bling bling drowns them in their champagne filled jacuzzi, or they are caught by an Al-Qaeda cell and beheaded live online for being infidels who are trying to spread vile capitalist propaganda. But most of all… Most of all I hope I never have to listen to this fucking skyscraper of cunt ever again.
« Groanings On (Vol. 3): Why Heavy Metal is Fucked Blaze Bayley – Bannermans, Edinburgh 11/12/11 »
Like Us
Or Spread Us Like Your Mum's Legs