Published on Feb 2, 2000
First, before I get into this review, let it be known that I did
not go out and buy this album on my own, but rather heard all the
rage from my cousin, who shall remain nameless (thanks Deborah).
Okay, now that we’ve all come to a mutual understanding…
Forget About The Moon is musically a very flexible album, a
crapshoot so to speak. It starts off fairly silent – but deadly –
with a gentle intro to the “Meaning Of Doo Doo,” but quickly leaves
that behind and launches into the powerful “Booty Shooter,” a
Chili-Pepperish jam that implores us all to “put your hands on your
buns / you’ve got the runs” and “put your hands on your computer /
download booty shooter.” Anus are not entirely a secular band –
soon after comes “Constipated In The Holy Land,” just to remind us
that every band has it roots.
And its influences – Anus make no bones about their
inspirations. “So Hard For Me” follows with a Pink Floydy acoustic
motif, and brings genuine tears – “It’s been three days / and it
ain’t comin’ out / it’s been four long days / and it ain’t comin’
out / why does it get so hard for me?” “R U Rectum Ready” shows
they’ve been listening to their Devo. And “Blood On The Stool” just
seems to ooze of the Artist Formerly Known as Prince. Anus move to
social commentary on “Why Is It Taboo?” – the eternal question of
those oh-so-constraining rules – “Hot and steamy, brown and
dreamy… why can’t I touch it / why is it taboo? Must I use a
fork and knife?”
“Psychic Poop” tells the fascinating tale of a fortune teller
with the genius to read our future through our natural juices. And
then “Tushy” puts a gripping twist on Pink Floyd’s “Money” with
appropriately-chosen sound effects replacing the jingling of coins
that graced the far-inferior original.
This band also likes to get down, so to speak. “The Word” and
“Anus On My Brainus” are anthems of the streets – you can hear them
blaring from boom boxes down alleys everywhere. “License To Poo” is
the sort of laid back funk you wish there more of these days.
But the real highlight is “Da Butt,” a heartbreaking paean to
the girl of the singer’s dreams, eschewing shallow infatuations
with things like her eyes, lips, and personality, and fixing his
gaze on her characteristics that really truly matter most.
Anus can rock out too, as they do on the difficult hardcore of
“Ahh Shit” and the rebel-rousing “What Up Booty Boy?” You feel
their pain.
This is a concept album, if you will, with a fecal fetish, from
a California quintet that seems to be saying “up yours” to the
collective music industry. And while it’s easy to turn up one’s
nose (or certain other parts of one’s anatomy) at such shameless
toilet humour, you’ve got to have straws up your you-know-what to
keep a straight face. Hie hence to yonder record store, and stoop
for the group that put the poop into pop.