Dreadlocked moonbooted Chicagoish Disco shit disguised as Hard Rock or i-don't-want-to-even-know-what...a grimacing trustafarian slurry of liquefied genres reconstituted by someone who is unable to compose anything; it's all samples, references and plagiarism, and how the fuck does he suck so bad he can't even succeed at making TRASH?
There's some very suspicious connected Connecticut insider-affilliation pulling career-can't-fail strings behind the scenes between this guy and the POWERMAN 5000 schlub...somehow they exhale into a microphone and are conveyor-belted directly to a Saturday Night Live musical appearance where a flashing illuminated APPLAUSE sign prevents non-plussed silence afterward.
To combine non-combinable idioms, to remix fake metal and provide nothing more memorable than a purposeless scowl and scary contact lenses is an achievement in homogenizing heterogeny...SO uncreativ that throwing everything in the blender results in flavorless paste.
I get the distinct feeling that, uh, Rob, has little to do with the production of this music; "Pink Pussy Mix" sounds like the work of a lone studio engineer armed with a gig of half-hearted vocals, and "Death of it All" seems to hav been voiced (and limply arranged) by Alice Cooper at the nadir of his dubious abilities.
In fact, the way this discography is inconsistently horrible, utlizing every conventional fail available to the flash-in-the-pan-minded HIRED producer, first using all directly-recorded synths to simulate real instruments, then soullessly farming out the entire song to a hack who can hack it, ot all implies to me that "Zombie"s job is not a job of work in the least and he functions only as his own stand-in; this is corrborated by the look of abject guilt on this man's naked face (top left of this page).
The Dracula Fangs look sharp and mean but are too soft and inconsequential to break the skin let alone chew.
There is something profoundly wrong with Connecticut; the silent "c" is unsettling. The all-pervading sense of surbubia in that state, the only U.S. state without Sheriffs, that is, an ostensibly independent enforcement loyal to the COUNTY government and the inhabitants therein. Even the cities seem suburban, despite the freemasonic carribean ghetto drug wars they maintain in them, crack dealer outside the Duncan Donuts, aerosol ebola in the Chuck E. Cheese, the sort of gangsterocracy lockdown that makes Sandy Hook possible.
When I gaze upon the graphic summary of Rob "Zombie"s "work", in watered-down ersatz tattoo flash that reminds me of skull prints I've seen on juvenile clothing in Target (seriously) I get that same omnisuburbia feeling as I do when in the sprawls of Connecticut or Southern California's soul-killing Orange County; the inexplicable need to be anything but what I am and to sample slap bass and rehash clichés.