With Christmas right around the corner, it seems a perfect time to review a band called "The Child Molesters." For the record, I don't think it's very nice to molest children. And I've got the guts to stand by this controversial opinion.
However, I have a memory from my childhood that drives me nuts because I cannot for the life of me figure out what I was thinking when it took place. I may have discussed this briefly elsewhere on the site but I'd like to go into greater detail here because I still can't figure out what in God's name my (lack of) motivation was. This isn't a funny bit, incidentally. I'm just curious whether anything like this ever happened to you, and/or what you think might have been going on in my head, because although I remember the incident quite clearly, I can't for the life of me recall what my thought process was.
When I was a kid, my best friend was a girl. Even then, I couldn't remember a time when she wasn't my best friend. We were always together, riding bikes, playing games, doing little kid nonsense like little kids do (because they're gay and stupid). But in the summer of our 10th year, I returned home from a vacation to learn that she and a male friend of ours had played "Strip Blackjack" while I was away. Naturally, being a lusty zesty young bachelor, I was interested and asked to join their little cocaine tea party of hot tub iniquity. The first time I played, our male friend was present because I was shy in my nude body and probably thought I'd pee everywhere, but after that I didn't need his penis around so me and the girl played alone.
We played pretty much every day after that, with her entirely undeveloped body nevertheless exciting my big curvy boner to no end. Eventually we did away with the Blackjack foreplay altogether and just stripped down to stare at each other each time we got together. Now HERE is the bit I was talking about -- the bit where I cannot FOR THE LIFE OF ME figure out what I was thinking. One day as we sat across from each other nude in her bedroom with the door locked, she said to me, "Let's go a little further. I'll come up with an idea, and then you come up with one. I say we touch. What's your idea?"
After thinking it over for a brief moment, I opened my decade-old mouth and replied - and I remember my exact words as if it happened not 22.5 years ago but instead just yesterday - "What else is there?"
Sigh.
WHAT ELSE IS THERE!?!? I knew Goldmined well what else there was! I'd been looking at my neighbor's Dad's Penthouses and having rich, debaucherous (and anatomically incorrect) sexual fantasies since the first grade! I may not have known the ins and outs of oral and anal, but I knew quite well that babies and venereal diseases were not created by "touching." So what did we do?
We touched. And that's all we did. And I don't mean passionate caresses or sexual strokin', but simple 'touching.' When it was her turn, she would quickly reach out and tap my turgid, monstrous erection (which already leaned to the right even at such a tender age). When it was my turn, I would haphazardly thump her flat chest. And we did this, back and forth and back and forth, very likely on multiple occasions. And then, for reasons I can't remember at all, we stopped hanging around each other and were never friends again.
So essentially, she was asking to me to fuck her. I could have lost my virginity at TEN. Like a real man would. So I'm asking you, the National Association of Clinical Psychologists that makes up the core of my readership: What was I thinking?
The only possible answer I can think of is that maybe I was incapable of viewing my oldest and best friend as a sexual partner. Maybe she felt too much like a sister to me for me to think of her in that way. We certainly never kissed, nor did it ever occur to me to find her attractive (though she was perfectly cute, I'm sure). There was something very exciting about the 'naughtiness' of sitting around naked with her, but for some reason I didn't have any interest in moving on from 'sight' to 'touch.' I never thought to ask her to open her vaginer for me. I remember asking her why she didn't have any hair down there, but that's it. I certainly got no joy from touching her chest; it just felt awkward. But why? Again, I guess I'll just have to conclude that although I found the nude female body sexually exciting, I couldn't equate my oldest friend with those 'naked ladies' I'd seen so many times in Penthouse. I mean, she might as well have been a guy, the bitch. Either way, the question is moot because she's dead as shit now, the whore.
Not that she was a whore. She certainly was a 'child molester' though, which brings us back to the reason you came to this page in the first place (and away from the reason you already gave up and left): The Child Molesters!
The Child Molesters were an interesting and kinda goofy punk rock band that existed between 1977 and 1982 and only recorded one full album (released posthumously). Although all the band members went by pseudonyms ("The Reverend Toad-Eater," "Reichstag Burning," "Awesome D.A. The Holy One," "Nosmo King," "Nopar King," "Johann Sebastian Blood," others), one of the musicians was definitely Ace Farren Ford of Smegma fame. You're a big Smegma fan, right? Of course you are. We all are.
More relevant to our discussion herein is that The Legendary Brown Album was recorded during the early '80s and is a terrifically entertaining smorgasbord of sick-chorded punk rock, 50's/New York Dollsy rock and roll, twisted Captain Beefheart bottleneck slide blues-rock, '70s funk-rock sleaze and even a Ventures-style surf number! The rhythm guitar and bass play together as a single bottom-end gutter-level fuzz assault (have you heard Overkill's "Hell's Getting Hotter" from SST's The Blasting Concept LP? That's EXACTLY what this guy's guitar sounds like), a lead guitarist wanks and shanes his doodle solos on top of everything, and it's all tied together with a 'love it or hate it' length of rope called The Lead Vocalist's Voice.
Although it's this latter aspect of The Child Molesters' sound that is most likely to kill the interest of potential fans, I have to admit that I find it quite endearing. Essentially he sounds like a cross between The Mentors' El Duce and the guy in Killdozer: a very gruff, warbly, rednecky, cartoonish and obviously affected voice that makes even the hardest punk tunes on here sound like novelty music. If you've no problem with this sort of thing, you will LOVE the Child Molesters, because every single song on here is catchy as all (Richard) Hell (whom I interviewed recently, so give that a read if you haven't had a chance yet). From the deranged punk aggression of "Brenda Spencer" and "Sluts" to the swampland blooze sludge of "You Make Me Sick" and "Snake-Eyed Donkey, Fish-Eyed Snake" to the upbeat speedy poppers "X Amount Of Grief" and "Violent Crimes" to such out-of-left-field material as piano-enhanced dark rocker "Jet Trash Disco Date," dopey 60s surf monologue "Pray For Surf" and hilarious Yoko Ono cover "Don't Worry Kyoko (Mummy's Only Looking For Her Hand In The Snow)," this is an album that places about a million times more emphasis on the musical hook than you would ever expect from the incendiary band name (which makes them sound more like a humorless 'transgressive' noise collective).
The album does have one problem though, so I'd might as well warn you; for absolutely no reason and to nobody's benefit, the band on three separate occasions insists on dragging out a perfectly good short song to more than twice its optimal length. "You Make Me Sick" and "Snake-Eyed Donkey, Fish-Eyed Snake" are wonderful slide-blues songs, just oozing with drunkenness and decay -- but by the end of their respective 8 1/2 and 7 minutes, you'll be ready to throw the repetitive pieces of shit out the goddamned window! Hell, the STORM window! Likewise, the idea of this gruff-voiced buffoon accompanying a wailing Yoko Ono impersonator on "Don't Worry Kyoko" is an absolute scream - but only for about a minute and a half. Noisy, irritating jokes should not be four minutes in length, regardless of The Offspring's commercial success.
Other than that though, it's as entertainting as entering a taint! Heck, if all child molesters could make albums this good, MICHAEL JACKSON something something something (*audience laughs uproariously*)
this is a reasonable function in our brains/bodies, because even though it does not matter whether those partners are relatives or friends, in general, the people you grow up with ARE your relatives. and having sex with your relatives can be dangerous, because disformation of the child is more likely. this both explains why you for example did not have the urge to fuck your friend and why on the other hand relatives that did not grow up with each other sometimes fall in love while this is under normal conidtions really rareley the case.
no you might argue - so why did my friend suggest sex with me then? well i guess, pure interest. if children hear about something, they want to try it. like flying like a bird, driving a car or sticking things into their vaginas. and you were a close friend, so it's natural that you could be a good cooperator. i guess she didnt feel any sexual attraction as well, though we might never know. but the thoughts and feelings you had are pretty typical for such a situation.
have a nice wintertime and a happy new year!
Last I heard he was kicked out of six different countries after serving time at Her Majesty's Pleasure and is currently languishing in a Vietnamese jail for more pedo offences, so clearly he is unstoppable.
I don't like all child molestors but the ones responsible for the Legendary Brown Album manage to transcend their name and produce the definitive gonzo haberdashery of surreal gems that sparkle and glisten like Gary Glitter's eyes when he spots a toddler.
These child molestors don't fuck around(If you'll excuse the pun), they go for the jugular like a Jewish Dracula after Yom Kippur. It's an aural assault on the senses that bludgeons you into submission by trawling the absurd with insanely competent punk rock and sublime trailer park lyrics of questionable sanity.
standing convicted,
Ace Farren Ford