Eggs, Eggs – Make Yourself (and some info for ya)

Well, due to a bounced check from my client and a nasty bulging disc, we’re running a little late, but who cares? We got our own time around here anyway. But just to keep you busy while we finish up our work, we decided to post a review.

Now, reviews aren’t something we’re going to regularly do really. Not conventional reviews. I mean, look, there are a million sites out there who will tell you what a record sounds like, tell you that it’s like X is a train wreck with Y. No real reason to try to lure all the pretties of the Internet with content that get anywhere. Sheeit.

So, like we said, just to hold you over, we thought we’d offer you some fine academic analyses of some of our times’ most important composers. Thus, we give you Eggs, Eggs. Oh – and NO FUCKING GRADE LETTERING OR GRADE LETTERING SUBSTITUTES.

Arteest: Eggs, Eggs

Title: Make Yourself

Label: Feeding Tube Records


Eggs, Eggs, looking at the lump of black in the bowl, it makes me think of them…and E. T. A. Hoffmann, the author and music critic, used the  word “sublime” to convey similar sentiments. Indeed sir. And it is he I am reminded of as I sit here with Styrofoam in my head, glasses fogged, constipated. “Eggs, Eggs,” Hoffmann wrote, is the “sublimest” of composers slime: its music “induces terror, fright, horror and pain and gas.” It “awakens that endless longing which is the essence of romanticism the sanitarium,” “opens the realm of the colossally rash and immeasurably befuddled,” and “leads the listener awry into the wonderful spiritual realm of the infinite waste treatment plant. ”

It is still possible to understand what Hoffmann and Wagner were talking about. Eggs, Eggs’s music is remarkable: in its extreme length, insistent dissonances and willfully angular juxtapositions; with its obsessive repetitions and overwhelming fortissimos, the music moves us in ways that the more genteel music of Mozart and Haydn does not, and the way the small and large intestines do. And though we have, to some extent, become accustomed to many features of Eggs, Eggs’s style, the music can still make us catch our breath – you know, because the stench made us lose it to begin with. Eggs, Eggs is to Haydn as the roller coaster is to the Ferris wheel: the music shocks as well as pleases, and pleases, in part, because it shocks. We need a name for this special quality, and could do worse than to adopt the term “sublimity,” already old by Hoffmann’s time, for that purpose. Either that or degradation. Ascendant degradation.

But what, exactly, is sublimity? Is it that we are simply overwhelmed by Eggs, Eggs’s musicianship, the way that we are dazzled by LeBron James’ athleticism? Or is it the music’s passionate emotional content, the way it seems to access our darkest or most powerful feelings? (One might compare the singing/screaming of punk rock singers, who also are after something that is not simply pleasing.) Is it the way Eggs, Eggs crosses boundaries, daring to do things–repeating a single melodic figure a dozen or more times, for example, or writing twenty-minute sonata movements–that, we imagined, no right-minded band would ever think of doing? Or is it more a matter of content: the way the audacity seems to be spiritually motivated, so that we can interpret Eggs, Eggs’s occasional departures from good taste as manifestations of a heroic, almost messianic impulse? Eggs, Eggs, remember, is the group of misguided individuals who compose despite their deafness, and who has a habit of keeping princes waiting while they work.

Yes, Make Yourself by Eggs, Eggs is a delicious treat, but an acquired taste. You may have ‘acquired’ it through that rot gut you’re drinking, or maybe through that nasty virus you haven’t been able to shake in eight weeks. But it’s sooooo gooood. Eggcentrically so.

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