Melvins
Lysol
Scum stats: in a just world, millions.
Writing late at night for what feels like the first time in forever, but with the Discogs livestream DJ set tomorrow (today really, 2pm Eastern, check it out), I need to be fully focused on that task at hand so knocking this one out with a doozy. So what that it's 1:06am?
For nearly twenty-five years, the Melvins have consistently been one of the bands I have most enjoyed. Amongst a catalog that is just too vast to completely comprehend (let alone listen to or own) “Lysol” is without a doubt the record of theirs I have listened to more than any of their records.
The music, for starters, is sublime and without a single misstep. Every note, every extended bout of feedback, every snare hit...there is nothing in the entire running time that is superfluous. Each action is essential in serving the larger statement.
Weirdly, when I first bought this record (roundabout July 1996 based on the Car City Records pricing sticker) I always listened to the sides in reverse order. So forever in my mind, the album starts with “Sacrifice.”
Seldom does a cover song surpass its original version. Never does it elevate to the level that the Melvins ascend to with their complete recontextualization of Flipper’s work. Now don’t get me wrong, Flipper’s version of “Sacrifice” is really, really solid. One of their finer moments. But the Melvins….shiiiiiiiiiiiiit. At various points in my life this song has fully encapsulated my reason for existing. It is, to this day, my go-to record whenever I’m setting up any new or reconfigured stereo equipment. I just know every last quiver the needle is supposed to make as it glides over this slab of wax, encoded into the dust that vibrates into strings that helix into the building blocks of my form. I may overuse this term (and for that I apologize) but I will absolutely fight to the death when I wholeheartedly exclaim that the Melvins’ version of “Sacrifice” is PERFECT.
The rounded bass tone, the dissonant squeal of the guitar feedback curdling into the song at the 36-second mark, the snare (triggered to a single snare hit sampled from Zeppelin’s “D’yer Maker”) coupled with cannon-strength bass drum, room for those two stutter syncopated with all kinds of personal inflection and style, the whole thing really just being six notes repeated over and over and over for over six minutes, literally getting better and better the louder you play it, the lyrics blatantly anti-war and military industrial complex...I could live inside this song for days.
Follow that with a brief segue into “Second Coming” straight into cover of “The Ballad of Dwight Fry” (both originally by Alice Cooper) and the dusty, Western vibes feel almost anathema as to what I would’ve expected from the Melvins at 14 years old. But man, it somehow flips the script and just works, bordering on Dust Bowl murder ballad vibes. I am only learning right now, at 1:36am, that Dwight Frye was an actor born at the turn of the century best known for playing maniacal characters in Universal horror films like Dracula and Frankenstein. Still, twenty years later, I am having trouble removing everything here from the Melvins, in my mind it all comes exclusively as their creation.
Good moment for an aside...most copies of this record come with NO information other than the band name and band member first names. When I first sat with a copy freshman year of high school, I had NO way of determining anything about this music, what side to play first, who wrote the songs, just nothing. It was mysterious and alluring and gave me just enough entree to not be that concerned about the lack of context. Not until buying a CD copy of Lysol in 2008 did I realize that the album DIDN’T begin with “Sacrifice”, let alone that there was a song on it called “Roman Dog Bird.” Furthermore, the songs are mastered in a way that they all run right into each other, no telling where one ends or begins, so much so that on the CD it is just one 31-minute-long “megacomposition.” That shit is confusing! But oh so worth it.
The album ends on “With Teeth”, a song centered around a chord progression that I have trouble describing in any way other than optimistic, triumphant or positive. As a vibe that is NOT common from the band by any means, it showcases here well, with little effort it could be some weird half-tone or down-tuned demonic, but if anything, this album is full of odd pseudo contradictions.
One-time Melvins drummer Coady Willis once said to me “I just can’t believe I get to play ‘With Teeth’ every night. That song is so important to me, meant so much to me when I was younger” and just little things like that, the insight into someone else’s perspective, gave me a wholly new perspective on a song like this. Lyrics are nearly impenetrable to my brain, so maybe in another decade I can make sense of them. Regardless, they FEEL right and in some instances, the feel is a thousand times more important than the syntax.
Circle round to the start of the album, “Hung Bunny” is an anti-song for nearly seven minutes, all wrung out power chords left to dissipate into the ether, drum accents barely punctuating anything, buried vocals that sound like disassembled chanting, avoiding annunciating any words, rather just honed in on differentiating vowel sounds. And THEN, around the 7:50 mark it kicks into an insistent, drum-propelled middle portion limbo, before settling on quintessential instrumental doom-inspiring Melvins 101.
Quickly, without warning, it crash lands into “Roman Dog Bird” And not until now, 2am, twenty four years of listening to the album, do I know that the first damn lyric on the album is “Lysol to get me high”
I didn’t think I could love this album any more. But somehow, with revelations like this, I do.
Another good moment for an aside: the title “Lysol” caused this album to get tied up in all kinds of legal trouble. The term “Lysol” itself is trademarked, and the then-owners (Sterling Drug) actually sent an undercover operative to the Boner Records (greatest label name ever) warehouse, posing as a journalist. Right before the release, records ready to roll out the door, Sterling drops the hammer, thousands of copies of the LP and CD need to have the offending words covered with black tape, crossed out with black marker, just completely asinine shit. Ben Swank recalls unwisely removing the tape from his copy as a youth. One of my prized Melvins-related possessions is an original copy without any signs of tape or marker, the title there in all its infringing glory. When Boner re-issued the album in 2015, they changed the title to “Lice-All” which is the ideal kind of clever.
Additionally, I’m just finding out now, at 2:15am, that Lysol was marketed as a feminine hygiene product in the late 1920s and was even utilized to induce abortions for women who could not obtain them legally….giving me a whole new perspective on this album title, which previously I had just thought was a clever, snide response to Nirvana naming their debut album “Bleach.”
Whether you consider it the end of side 1 or side 2, all is transcendently immortal. The cover is based on the sculpture “Appeal to the Great Spirit,” itself already depicted as the logo for the Beach Boys vanity label Brother Records and a Keef Hartley Band album cover...the image signals importance, something greater than us, a resignation of oneself to the higher power, all ideas I sincerely feel are embodied in this recording, while the center labels and printed inner sleeve match in a dizzying red/black/white flower pattern, hypnotic upon closer inspection and the feedback buzzing.
I can honestly say here, without any hyperbole or stretching of the truth, this album is one of the greatest rock and roll records ever made. Top five material. There is no overselling this one. Lysol is absolutely essential to any self-respecting record collection. No excuses. Everything about it is just exemplary.
And in an effort to throw a bone...I am giving away an LP copy of “Lysol” right here.
While my original ‘96 purchase and the unredacted will stay in my stacks, the wonderful Greg Siemasz handed me one in 2002 that I am now letting back into the wild, with hopes that it will inspire someone at least ¼ as much as it has me.
The contest is only open to people who don’t already own a copy of this masterpiece. From there...in the comments, spin me a yarn about getting busted. Cops, parents, the leader guy in your cult...doesn’t matter who did the busting. Maybe you were even the one who did the busting? Maybe you were scared it was going to ruin your life, maybe you were never scared. Maybe it’s funny. Maybe it’s sad. Maybe it’s entirely made up and should also be entered into a short story contest. Maybe it ruminates on some sort of feeling that there’s no word for in English, but the Germans sure as hell have one.
I just keep thinking back on what it must’ve felt like to have to tape and mark all those original copies of the record...how tedious, how demoralizing, what a set-up to give-up. But if anything, this record is only that much better because of the lore behind it. Getting busted does not stop greatness. Even if it’s 2:55am.
Haiku:
Green green grass from Ra,
Smoke that billows from your car,
Yup, busted for pot.
Thad Reynolds was to be feared on the ice. My first concussion was a gift from Thad. I didn’t know him, but everyone knew who he was. One night I was on Ocean Beach in San Francisco with some friends having a fire, playing songs, and smokin’ weed when a bunch of cops showed up out of the darkness with their torches swinging all over our shit. Probable cause led their search to my jacket where they found a pipe. I denied it was mine. Unfortunately my wallet and driver’s license were in the same pocket. I had no idea I had a warrant out there, but that’s another story. I was cuffed, belligerent, and escorted off the beach. I was booked for possession and put in a holding cell with one other guy who was dressed kinda funny for jail – pajama bottoms, basketball jersey, and sandals. He had his head in his hands and ran his fingers through his kinky hair occasionally. After awhile being there together across from one another we both looked up. “Thad Reynolds?” I hadn’t seen the guy in 15 years. “You gave me a concussion at a Lawrenceville vs Princeton game in ’87”. “Oh yeah,” he said, “I remember you, how you doing, what you in here for?” “Busted for weed on the beach, you?” “Man, I got a cab home, but I didn’t have any money so I had him drop me a few blocks from my house and I ran. I get home and go straight to bed. Meanwhile, my tweaker-ass housemate can’t find his blow and is convinced that we were robbed so he calls the fuckin’ cops – can you believe that shit?! He calls the COPS to tell them our house has been robbed because he can’t find his blow – stupid ass…. Anyways, he’s losin’ his shit and I just don’t care, I’m tired. The cops show up on the burglary call and come inside to make their report and interview everybody. So next I know I’m getting out of bed and being asked a bunch of questions and one cop says, ‘wait a minute, you match a description of a guy that just skipped out on a cab fare’. They pull me out on the front porch, call the cabby, he identifies me, and here I am.” Both in for stupid shit – his brilliantly more stupid and amusing than mine – we laughed all night long, telling stories about our parallel lives playing hockey in New Jersey. He’d been a roadie for Blues Traveller for awhile and spoke of Ween being on rise – our little hamlet was rich with troublemakers who made their marks one way or another. 5am my buddy posted bail and got me out. “How was your night in jail?” he asked sarcastically. “Really great!” I said, “Super fun – ran into an old friend”.
I’ll up the ante…………I’ll come clean with my parents and tell them the whole story if I get chosen to receive this record.
Otherwise the secret dies with us.
I got busted over a quarter century ago shoplifting CDs from a Turtles in Statesboro, GA. Talk about Statesboro Blues, right? Anyway I’ll always remember the police officer getting me into the back of the squad car and staring at me for a moment in the rear view mirror…sizing me up. He said “You’re an Air Force brat.” I replied “How did you…” and he cut me off with “I just know, son. Now let’s get ya to the station.” Good times…..
Thinking about what I just typed out I have to say……it would be so weird to get a Melvin’s record because of that incident. I would kind of think the universe does actual meaning and is not some completely random event.
Shoplifting. Age 10 Thrifty’s drug store. If you don’t know Thrifty’s you didn’t grow up in Southern California in the 70’s.
Anyway….I knicked a fishing lure. Caught red handed. The manager warned me to never come back. Ever.
Fast forward two months. Mom & Dad said, “Let’s go to Thrifty’s for ice cream!” I was cornered. I tried my best to come up with an excuse not to go. My parents were like “WTF is wrong with this kid?” They were determined to get ice cream so off I went with them.
I was sooooo scared ordering that ice cream at the counter I probably just got a single scoop of vanilla just so we could get out of there as fast as possible. The manager was either not there or he didn’t see us and I made it out alive.
To this day I’ve never told them that story.
When I was 16, my parents went out of town and I threw a party – like all good 16 year olds should. It was about 1am, I was sitting on the lap of a somewhat intoxicated, older guy who had been brought over by one of my friends. We were getting cozy, when all of a sudden he yells ‘who the f*ck are YOU’ at the top of his voice. Long story short, it was my very strict, non-drinking, Italian father. He grabbed the closest thing he could find which happened to be a shovel and came right at us. The guy tossed me off his lap and moved faster than I’d ever seen anyone move! He was gone before my dad was within shovel swinging distance. 5 years later I married that guy. For years my father kept the shovel by the front door though – just in case. ?
P.S. I had a very similar learning experience with Penny Royal Tea. Changed my perspective of that entirely too. Always a lesson to be learnt huh?!
I am practically the dictionary definition of a square. The first thing that comes to mind is as being a little sister to a brother that was quite the polar opposite when it comes to being a square; looking up to him I always had his back with his shenanigans. I would stay up late on weekends to assist my older brother with his escapes and returns. Keeping the hounds quite to not wake the folks and unlocking the door for him as he snuck out like a true angsty teen. The only time I did rat him out was for stealing my black eye liner. My square-self I do not have much of any juicy and scandalous tidbits of a story to share but I do appreciate the Melvins and wanted to at least have an entry.
You know, since this COVID $hlt hit the fan, I have been spinning more wax than a candle maker during a blackout. I love listening to music. I think that’s why we are all here. But, no matter the hifi system, or the pressing weight of that disc of polyvinyl chloride turning under that micoline stylus of yours, nothing beats an intense, sweaty, loud, and live gig. Because of the current state of the world, so many great shows were cancelled. So many artists, pit crews, roadies, recording techs, merch pushers, and groupies have been left out to dry, dripping, sopping wet in the sun. As a fan of music, I have taken it upon myself to support my favorite artists through the purchase of merch, records, donations for IG live streams, knowing full well that I am only enabling some sort of addiction. It’s mutual, I suppose. Now it’s mid-month, and I realize that, for the first time in a long time, I’m nervous to see that credit card statement. Because of of my supporting-artist-spending-spree, I fear for my continued ability to purchase records, for the safety of my stereo system and my stack of wax. The anxiety of getting caught, fuelled by the lack of tangible explanations (and excuses), boils in me as though I’m a pressure cooker ready to blow. The internal tension grows each passing day as I walk to my mailbox, cringing as I open it to peek inside… Relief floods over me as I realize “what-should-not-be-named” has yet to arrived. I’m spared for just one more day. I get to spin some more records… Until the day comes when that complicit piece of folded paper shows up, pointing its massive finger at me, as though shouting “I told you so!” That is when the real shiat will hit the fan, you know, when my better half sees The Tally… That’s when the hammer will fall, when judgement will side not on my folly, but on the logic of my spouse (who frankly, doesn’t understand). I remember getting caught drinkin’ when I was 11, although I never did get caught stealin’. I never got caught cheatin’ on a test, or a girl. I never got caught much, really, so I don’t know what to expect. I imagine my beautiful wife transforming into some hellish fiend and crumbling like a cookie beneath the weight of her wrath. I shudder at the thought of getting caught… But that’s neither here, nor there as it has yet to come. So I will spin another record on this supposed RSD 2020, and try to stifle this fear and anxiety of getting caught. (P.S. Ben – your description of “Lysol” has enticed me to explore this record more closely… I heard it once, but it’s been a while. Thanks for posting the link, as it’ll save me from finding it). Cheers!
It was May of 1997, the night of Senior Prom. It was hot and sticky in Louisiana and me and my girlfriends and their dates were all decked out in silk, ruffles, sequins, bow-ties, and awkward ease. I had never had a drink of alcohol and for some odd reason, I was on a mission to get drunk that night. My date, a random classmate I asked to go to the dance with, was hosting an after-prom breakfast at his house. I don’t recall eating, but I do recall drinking mass quantities of icky tasting liquids. My friends handed cups of concoctions to my to drink and drank. I don’t remember much about the breakfast accept that there was a jaquouzi. I passed out and my friend dumped me in one of the dates’ Jeep. All of the girls were sleeping over at my house, I’m not sure how we got to my house, but I had forgotten my key and the door was locked. I was drunkenly ringing the door bell and banging; my friends were nervously looking st one another. Eventually my father opened the door, he looked at my friends and then at me crouched over begging to hurl and just laughed. My friends had a nice sleepover and enjoyed some rest in the shower & around the throne. even til this day I won’t touch Bacardi and Coke.