archive review originally posted on the losing today site c.2002
DALMATIAN REX AND THE EIGENTON
MAJIKAL MOOSE MOUSTACHE MUSIQUE
Gripping stuff. I can’t remember a record having given me so much fun on one hand and on the other a sense of positive confusion. The incredibly Beefheart / Fall inspired title ‘Majikal Moose Moustache Musique’ should give you fair warning that all is not quite right on planet Dalmatian Rex, but then as you would probably gather these loveable urchins (who at one time went under the guises of Mule Dilemma, Victor Universe and Mouse Hole Opening) recline in a musical world which freely condones the extraction of unruly potions of weird images and warped collages.
This is Dalmatian Rex’s second album and follows their equally Goon like named debut ‘We don’t make toothpaste for anyone’ and features both sides of their recent seven inch platter ‘My dog’s got a bucket on her head / Twenty eight hole Oxford bags’ which those of you with long memories may remember getting the thumbs up in Singled Out.
Let’s cut to the chase and warn you that if you suffer with the following then you should avoid this like the plague. Don’t buy if you have a sense of humour failure: like your music safe and nicely defined and hate Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band, The Goons, the Cravats, the Cramps and the Butthole Surfers.
Let’s put it this way ‘Majikal Moose Moustache Musique’ is testing stuff, unbalanced, chaotic, disjointed and alarmingly addictive. This is psychiatric pick ‘n’ mix pop at it’s best, check these out for titles ‘Suddenly he became sexually attracted to a deep fat fryer’, ‘pickled onion on an ironing board’ and the B movie Cramps necking ‘Naked Lunch’-isms of the buzz saw ‘I was married to a fly headed girl’ one of the albums highlights. During the course of the album such liberating questions as where have all the slugs gone are asked, the joys of string and elastic are all are pondered upon, references to nurses succumbing to black holes, masturbation, the loves of orang-utans and the age old debate about whether Englebert Humperdink is really the anti Christ all puzzling dealt with throughout the course of sharp bursts of fuzzy wayward punked up manoeuvres, curious advertisement interludes and Edward Lear like twisted imagery. In amongst this there’s still time for some reverse vocal messages (Gagong du ging yadyad ou’ and the inclusion of a spoon. Highlights have to be the iced eerie threads of the melotron on ‘Moose moustache man’ and the spoken word comedy of ‘This is my hippopotamus and his name is not Gerald’, Viv Stanshall eat your heart out. The lunatics have well and truly left the asylum and are heading for a sound system near you, you were warned.