Review Summary: Great art is horseshit, buy tacos
I remember when I first heard the frail and furious on-rush that is Brand New music. It was a beautiful spring day. Birds were singing. Grass was growing. Three hobos were having raccoon kebabs in a clearing. An old woman was wringing out her lingerie and hanging it up on the line. A group of teenagers behind the dumpster were drinking antifreeze and discussing the effects of British trade relations with China on peaceful passage in the Taiwanese strait and the ensuing counter-effects that Western manufacturing and fiscal political climate were experiencing. A priest was quietly spasming in the corner. I asked him what was wrong. He said to me- I can feel two fictional entities raging inside me, but I can’t quite put my finger on which. I knew then as I know now –
Upon hearing of Science Fiction’s release, I put on my favourite overalls and skipped to the nearest record shop to nab myself a copy. On my way there, a one-legged man asked me if I had a spare cigarette.
Lit Me Up, he screamed.
What do I get? I asked him.
I’ll show you my cock of course, the man said reaching into his fly.
Well, what’s the hold-up?
Can’t Get It Out!
What a Waste, I continued on my journey. It might seem strange to you, but I knew then that it Could Never Be Heaven with me and him. It’s like my grandfather always used to say – Same Logic slash Teeth.
The record shop on 137 was closed for maintenance, as they had been tented by exterminators due to an infestation of Iron Maiden albums.
Help me, Jesus! I plead. Unfortunately, the big man upstairs seemed to be Out of Mana.
Then I saw it. A copy of the new album sitting at the bottom of a fountain. Thoughtlessly I went In The Water, like Moses stumbling through the Desert. It was like I had No Control over myself.
No! I heard someone scream as I got out of the fountain. It was a lady doctor. She looked at me and cried out:
That fountain is infected with a rare disease. By my calculations, you only have 451 months to live.
What do I do? I asked her.
Well, she said. There is an experimental clinic down the road. They cure this rare disease by funneling pancake Batter Up your asshole.
That’s when I knew that the whole thing had been (Science) Fiction.
Onto the review then, shall we?
This album is a true testament to the changeless nature of man. If the virtue of Science Fiction was measured in the amount of aimless Youtubing and masturbation that Brand New’s average fanbase had done in the eight-year wait period, its value would be too large to type across the Milky Way. As it stands, it’s just another album thingy-majig with words and guitar and such.
Now, claims have been made that this album does not have bangers. Those claims are wrong. This thing is positively replete with bangers, as the band DO continue banging on about the same pubescent ***e, even as their hairlines thin and they start wearing orthopedic shoes on stage. Which means that listening to Science Fiction is like being gently fingered by Peter Pan while in the next room, your nan watches Peaky Blinders and eats motor oil on Melba toast.
Upon release, Science Fiction drew rave reviews from all critical outlets. People had awfully kind things to say about it. Like this:
“Not what we were expecting.”
-Science Fiction Magazine
“I’ve waited eight years for this! The new Brand New album, AND I only have four years to go on my slavery. Well, hot dog!”
-That guy from 12 Years a Slave.
“Brand New? More like Same Old, amirite?”
- Dame Judi Dench
I’d like to carry on telling you about how amazing and singular this band and album truly are. For the life of me, I don’t know how they keep doing this so goodly. I mean, how many hoodie over flannel shirt combinations can there be, no?
I’ll end on this. My father used to tell me that the only people who drink champagne are teetotalers and those with stomach ulcers. I never quite understood that until now. And now that I think about it, I don’t quite understand it.
