Basket of Death – Salamander Sex and Sword Fucking

Basket of Death
Salamander Sex and Sword Fucking

(We’re pretending this is entry #1 of the mp3 beauty pageant.)

While I hate to admit that I invited this old hag to tonight’s contest, it is indeed my fault. The audacity it must take to arrive in such tatters, so unkempt and harboring a nauseating stench! Are you as appalled as I am? Is it even human? The protruding gut slices through their maggot-ridden gown, feces firmly adhering to their haunches. Basket of Death are not the girl next door. Incapable of articulating more than the most primal snarl or intestinal odor, the only sign of intelligence rests in their song titles which exude wit and explore the heavy metal side of Dadaism. To arrive in a dress made from used toilet paper … perhaps they are making a statement?

Their last minute entry into the talent contest is (surprise) also a song, although not one that is likely to appeal to a broad listening audience. Marked by excessive panning, the duo of constipated guitars sputters alongside vocals that are little more than pitch-dropped belches. The listening experience is the aural equivalent of going to a glue factory where they are rendering horses in giant putrid vats. A while after the average listener would have gouged out their ears, it happens that suddenly the canned drums take on a more ominous quality – and when coupled with the fully realized guitars, they create a maelstrom of something that, if not approaching music, at least constitutes ROCK. When this brief moment subsides, we return to something akin to the sound of rhinos vomiting over a rapid-fire dance beat. Not the Devil’s music, but perhaps what one of his lackeys would listen to on his walkman for inspiration.

Everyone was actually enjoying the swimsuit portion of the contest, until of course most of the judges’ heads exploded upon impact with the spray of various bodily fluids from Basket of Death. A rumor went around that this was the Boredoms, but clearly on a diet of fried chicken by-products. A poor assumption despite the similarity of locale. Suddenly I believe in reincarnation, because it must take many lives to be able to relate to these sounds.

I’m afraid our second contestants who initially earned extra bonus points for hailing from Japan were unfortunately disqualified for making the statement: “We are the metal of central spastic central black of central noise of pulverization.” So the crown, screaming crowd, and infinite adulation of course goes to that first band, whatever their name was…