Brokencyde - I'm Not A Fan, But The Kids Like It!
Release Date: June 16, 2009
Record Label: Break Silence Recordings
I'm supposed to want Brokencyde. And by want, I mean, I want to get fucking freaky with Brokencyde. How could I not? They spend all their time in the club. Their sexual experience far trumps mine. They drink Cristal. They even do drugs!
Because Brokencyde, residents of "Albucrunky 505 Let's Get Crunk, New Mexico", spend every waking moment fucking and getting fucked up, they don't have time to invest in self-improvement. School, the gym or even music lessons take a backseat to what's important: a lavish lifestyle and the ladies. It's crucial that you understand this. I know because their new record, crunkcore extravaganza I'm Not A Fan, But The Kids Like It!, told me so.
Because Brokencyde insist they are really true form musicians, I am left to believe that this band simply thinks that fucking and getting fucked up is the epitome of life and all its glories. Except for seven-minute drone-tone "I'm Sorry", which is a lyrical ballad dripping with love-torn musings like "I tried so hard to break you/I love you/I hate you/why wont you let me go?", Brokencyde don't beat around the bush. There are 17 tracks on the album: one is an intro, one is a phone call skit, one is the aforementioned "I'm Sorry", one is "Jealously" (which I assume is a reaction to the band's army of haters), and the other 13 are about exactly the same thing, and you know what that is. To lessen the responsibility of making the music, the band derives their "instrumentals" from the crunk genre, making all of I'm Not A Fan a miserable Lil Jon and Three 6 Mafia awkward white boy rip off.
Brokencyde also has a crucial skill for repetition. Se7en, the band's wailing lyricist and hand-stuck-in-the-blender chihuahua screamer and Phat J, the low, grumbling howler who sounds like he's slurping soup are the complimentary boosters to Mik L, the band's lead singer (and hypeman, because he doesn't actually sing that much). Like on "40 OZ.", Se7en and Phat J spit out "LET'S DRINK THE FORTY OUNCE! LET'S GET CRUNK IN THE CLUB!" upwards of thirty times. The combination of the two screamers isn't a pleasant togetherness, and the result is something like dragging a quartz rock along a piece of sheet metal.
It's unfortunate for Brokencyde that no matter how sexy they feel when walking into the club (like on "Freaxxx"), it's still going to take a large spread of alcohol, marijuana and ecstasy to get a girl to come home with them, or at least that's what their music tells me. Borderline desperate and itching for a blowjob, Brokencyde will "make you lick my magic stick" and "lick my lollipop". And then "make it drop" because they're "too drunk to stop". "Excuse me if I touch your crotch/cause I'm drunk right now and my dick is bored/cause I can't meet chicks at the liquor store" ("Rockstar").
And if this was all a joke, then this review would be very different. Using an elementary level of synthesized bass pumpage, electronics and top hat tings, I'm Not A Fan is bottomline catchy or catchy by default. I could take the joke for the sake of a few active night clubs. But since they do think of themselves as a legitimate working band, with a sole synthesizer in hand and band member - Antz - whose role is to turn on the strobe and fog maker, I am forced to believe Brokencyde when they say they want me to "make [their] pee pee hard" ("Sex Toyz"). I am nothing but obligated to believe that this band can swoon me over.
Which brings me to my little sister. She's 15, she's impressionable and she likes boys that wear skinny jeans. I brought her I'm Not A Fan, But The Kids Like It! in the purpose that she'll at least give me a more age-appropriate opinion. She looked at me, opened her eyes wide like a fawn who has been chained to a rock and shook her head with a firm NO.
I'm not a fan is an understatement, but about the kids liking it... Hold that thought, B-cyde.
This review is a user submitted review from Julia Conny. You can see all of Julia Conny's submitted reviews here.