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.
It was the summer between grade 8 and grade 9, what are we, 13? There were three of us (girls that age always do seem to come in threes), growing up in the suburbs just outside of Toronto. Our city name was uttered like a dirty word by those in the “big city”. Like almost every kid who ever lived in the ‘burbs, I couldn’t wait to get out. Until then, I could get a little taste every now and then.
We had one friend who had very permissive parents, so naturally we all hung out at her house as much as possible. When her parents bought a trailer at a park for summer weekend recreation, she was initially excited. Later she began to complain and not want to go away for the weekend. I think she may have been worried about what we were doing that she was missing out on. There wasn’t that much to miss. Somehow, she managed to convince her parents to let her stay home for the weekend. The other two of us would tell our parents we were going away to the trailer with her and her parents, then spend the weekend underage drinking and watching music videos all night at her parentless house. Until that long weekend of Caribana, a large celebration of Caribbean culture that takes over downtown Toronto every August Civic holiday.
Over the years, the festival has become as known for gun violence as it has for its music and spectacle. We didn’t know any of this, we were 14 and fearless, so we took a bus into the city and spent the entire weekend walking a fine line between having a great time and getting into situations far beyond our control. I still do not know how we managed to get into not one, but two bars. I have never looked my age, and I was probably the least mature looking 13 year old. We danced self consciously, not wanting to draw any attention to ourselves and get thrown out on our asses.
Stupidly, naively, we ended up a house party with a bunch of people, mostly male, who had to be in their twenties. I have no idea how we managed to get through the weekend intact and unscathed, but we did. In hindsight I wonder if we got invited to the part because someone thought they should be looking out for these preteens who lacked basic street smarts. We didn’t realize we lacked street smarts at the time. We thought ourselves very clever. We weren’t clever, we were lucky, to a point.
That point came on Sunday afternoon. Having bussed back to the safety of our suburb, we washed, slept, and tried to pull ourselves together before going back to our families. I walked home exhausted but still buzzing from all the excitement of the weekend. I came through the door with a big fake smile and a “Hi, I’m home”. “Where the hell were you?” “What do you mean mom? I was at the trailer”. “We had you listed as a runaway, we’ve been talking to Claudia’s mother, we know you weren’t with Ruth’s parents.”
I have no idea if the part about reporting me as a runaway is true, I certainly never saw any indication of it, nor did I ever have to speak to the police. I was grounded from pretty much everything for the rest of the summer. Ruth and Claudia were hanging out together within a week.
That September we all started high school and slowly drifted apart. Eventually we lost touch completely. Then, on the evening of June 9, 2018 I ran into Ruth again at a Jack White show at the Budweiser Stage in Toronto. Of course, we don’t have any photos to prove it because we didn’t bring cell phones – it was almost like being 14 again.
Every part of this story is true. I didn’t even change the names to protect to foolish.
It was my first heist. I saw it. I had to have it! There it was, just taped to the back wall next to the coats. River Dorsett had brought in an American Werewolf in London poster, the Nazi wolf one with the machine gun. I was in fifth grade and loved that movie almost as much as I hated River, so the heist would in my mind be a win win. I launched a plan. I’d be the last one in from recess and as I’d remove my snow boots to put them under the coats I’d snatch the poster off the wall and throw it in my boot. Brilliant! Recess came and went and just as I was about to stuff the poster in my boot, Maria Delusha walks back from her desk right toward me. I panic, grab my coat and fill the sleeve with the poster. Genius! Crisis averted. End of the day I’ll just grab my coat and voila, job well done. Last bell, grab my coat and the poster flies down the sleeve on the floor in front of everyone. Fuuuudge! Busted.
as a teenager in the 90’s my friends and I used to visit a local pub that didn’t always ID, and we knew someone who worked there who would vouch for us, if he was asked. One night after more alcohol than my novice body could handle, we all headed home. by the time I got home, I was worse for wear. not wanting to alert my parents to my state, I sat on the bumper of my moms car for several minutes trying to clear my head. once I was feeling like I could make it to bed safely I went inside, said a brief hello as I walked past my mom as she sat at the computer, and safely made it into my room where I promptly passed out. I had made it! no one was the wiser, or so I thought. Come daylight, my mom woke me up mid-morning and asked me “were you drinking last night?” Knowing that I made it to my room mostly unseen and unquestioned, I figured I could deny it and be in the clear. there was no evidence, beyond my own hangover which she couldn’t know about simply by waking me up. After my denial, she reminded me “you threw up behind my car. want to try again?” I could only think to say “oh, right…” I guess I didn’t get away with it after all.
I do NOT own a copy of Lysol. Haven’t heard it yet, but do have Houdini, Stoner Witch and Stag on CD. Been busted a couple times, I’ll tell you about the first. Fall 1991 I was living in Germany as a kid, 14 years old, my dad was in the Army. We had been there three years and I was out with my two best buds and their German girlfriend. She drove us to Würzberg to a shopping center. My buddies where no strangers to shop lifting and were putting CD’s, tapes, earphones and discmans in their jackets and pants. Me and the GF were lookouts. I didn’t like the boldness of the days heist, they had a looooot of stuff. We began to walk out and I was like, “wow, I can’t believe we’re getting away with this. Then, two men dressed in plain clothes approached us. One grabbed me by the arm and said, “come with me please.” (Do your best German accent) One friend ran down the parking lot and my other bud, struggled with the other guy, got hit in the face and all the loot fell out of his jacket. They took three of us into the building separating us all. While my other buddy got away. We were picked up by the polizei and taken to the Army base MP’s in handcuffs. When we got there the polizei didn’t like my speed and yelled at me “schneller!!!!” I gave him a bit of lip, which he didn’t like, so he grabbed me, walked me into the station shoving my face through the front door, making for very dramatic entrance. We were treated very kindly by the MP’s, questioned and released to our parents. My family was already headed back stateside, but my buddy who got knocked to the ground in the parking lot had to leave the country and go home to family. He ended up joining the Marines and is a S.W.A.T police in Austin, TX! The other friend was German and had to do community service. Good times man!!!
My 13 year old son loves punk and Detroit garage rock. He recently became aware of The Melvins through a local Toledo record store. This piece would be an amazing addition for his collection. Incidentally, in true 13 year old boy-rebellious fashion, he is constantly getting busted seeking out extreme, inappropriate music. As a mom speaking, he needs to gradually work his way up to GG Allin and The Dwarves. I believe The Melvins are an excellent stepping stone!
I don’t even know if I got busted or not. Halfway through the headlining Jefferson Airplane’s set at the 1970 Bath Blues Fest, (highlight Led Zeppelin, close second Canned Heat) we had to leave because the whole event was running hours late, it was early the next morning, and we had to catch our bus home in order to get back to school the next day. My diary informs me that we were delivered to the bus stop via police car, but I have no memory as to why. Pretty sure no Lysol was involved, though other substances may have been, and it may be just as well that a veil has been drawn over this episode.
Could I be busted by a train perhaps? For the sake of this I’ll say yes. last year I went to the Nashville quarry for the first time. it was the end of the summer and it was like a last hurrah until me and my friends all returned to school. so one late afternoon we grabbed our suits and set out to the quarry. if you’ve never been to get there you have to walk along some train tracks then hike down a trail for awhile until you get to the property. the way to the quarry was easy. we had fun we took pictures of the sunset in the field. overall a great time. along with our time at the quarry. it was a great last night together swimming and trying to make a campfire. we eventually had to end our night so we headed down the trail. we talked about how we’d return next year and make it a thing we always did. now as we joked around one of our more paranoid friends was up ahead watching the tracks. even with him yelling we were dumb to not hear the train until the light was shinning through the trees. if you’ve ever taken drivers ed they tell you to run towards to train. you’ll get away quicker. all of us quickly forgot that. did I mention that we were on a bridge because we were on a fucking bridge. there was a creek below but it was so low we’d get super hurt. anyways we are running as fast as our legs can carry us down this long bridge to the end. all screaming fuck as loud as we could purely from panic. thank god we made it to the bushes in time or else I probably wouldn’t be writing this. I swan dive to the left side and lay low. all the others went right and just watched the train go on it’s way. that’s my one and only “stand by me” moment. I guess you could say the train busted us for trespassing on private property but. this is as best a story as I could conjure. (I would also like to mention for the contests sake I do not own the record. and am in the process of switching my vault account to maevevgraham@gmail.com) you know not using my mothers email)
All my life I wanted to work with Peter Jackson. Yes, Lord of the Rings/King Kong Peter Jackson. 7 years ago, at the age of 21, I drove my beat up old Holden for 11 or so hours from my hometown in the South Island of New Zealand to Peter Jackson’s kingdom of Wellywood (Wellington, NZs capital city) in the North Island. Hobbit fever has taken the country by storm. Everyone was talking about it. I lived in my car for a few days whilst trying to secure any job on The Hobbit Trilogy, I was determined. After a week or so of pouring my heart out trying to get work, I finally got a break. I was invited into Stone Street Studios, the movie making chocolate factory to Peter Jacksons Willy Wonka… and I was Charlie, dreaming of entering this place ever since I first saw Lord of the Rings. I was offered a job in the props department. I’d done it! I accepted the job and without anyone stopping me I proceeded to wander around the studio checking out all of the sets and organised chaos ensuing. Eventually I came up with a great idea. I would introduce myself to the production manager. A woman who ultimately would decide on my fate on these films by accepting or rejecting my application. Having just finished working on a small scale Tv show, the idea of popping into the production managers office for a chat was normal… but this was no small Tv show. Within minutes of leaving her office I had security guards swarm me. I was taken into their office and hounded with questions for ages; who am I working for? Did I take any photos? Why was I in the production managers office? Who said I could wander around? This was turning bad. I watched my contract get torn up right infront of my eyes. I was told I would never work at Stone Street Studios, nor would I ever work for Peter Jackson. I was gutted, completely lost. I had wanted to work with Peter for most of my life and I blew it. I rang my Mum. “F&k Peter Jackson & f&k The Hobbit!”. I cried for ages. Then… Within a week or two I was there, working on the set, one of the most amazing experiences ever. I had landed a job in a completely different department, personal assisting, making coffee and selecting tunes for the cast during downtime. In the end I discovered the production manager had found me to be “ballsy”, she saw my name on a new application and decided to give me a shot. I kicked ass at that job and didn’t make the same mistake again. It was awesome. I mostly jammed Queens of the Stone Age, Ween and The White Stripes on set. I’ll never forget it, it went from being one of the lowest points in my life to one of the highest. True story.
Not looking to enter, but that was a great read!
The Melvins were one of my brother’s favorite bands. He passed away unexpectedly over the 2018 holidays. You can’t imagine what I felt when I discovered I’d get to see them twice as they played with the Raconteurs the next summer. I cried a few times during their set in Santa Monica. I know some of you noticed. I love them but I don’t have any of their albums at all, let alone the storied Lysol!
So, getting busted… I’m 99% good girl, and that 1% naughtiness always ends up in trouble. I never get away with anything. I get busted every time. Ever see a theater-nerd straight-A daughter-of-the-school-principal get expelled her freshman year? Welp. That was me. I let someone talk me into being naughty on a field trip and it went sideways. SO BUSTED. Oh, and the president of the school board who had to expel me? My boyfriend’s dad.