It sounds like a case of swine slaughter turned wrong.
You are standing there with the axe, blade down, swinging it above the neck; and although pigs can’t look up it knows what’s coming to it, so the little piggy won’t stand still between your legs. With all your might the axe cleaves through several thousand million air molecules but you miss the neck, and it buries into the back of the pig and gets stuck between a shoulder blade and the spinal column.
The farmer ain’t happy because you’re useless, you aren’t happy because you just lost your job, and the little piggy sure as hell ain’t happy ’cause it has a hand axe standing out from its back. After the first squeals of surprise have passed the pig realizes that it’s fighting for its life, it’s in hellish agony, and all you can do is hold the sorry thing down because the movements will shoot spikes of pain through every muscle and stressful meat makes bad bacon. Not to mention the sympathy you feel, knowing that before it was pushed out from the womb it looked almost just like you. That’s when the farmer gets the hammer, and although you aren’t exactly one hundred percent sure which one of you two on the ground he’ll be aiming for, you know none of God’s creatures won’t feel a thing when the hammer hits the temple.
But there’s a short while feeling like middle ages when the farmer’s left you alone with the pig, and all you can think of doing is to sing for the piggy. So that’s what you do, you sing lullabies, but you can’t remember the words so you start making it up:
Don’t worry little piggy this is none ’bout castration
it’s all about the modern white meat fixation
and you shall never be alone, you little piggy fatalist
with the money we get you can buy friends in heaven
LANZAROTE! Lie still until farmer Henry comes back, love
Or else there’ll be trouble at the altar, boy
and you’ll never be Kristi Brud, you’ll just be overcook‘ed
That’s the doctrine, piggy, take it or leave it,
Fucking mudmouth don’t insult me,
you will either get it standing up strong
or you’ll taste death face down in the ground.
..which is eleven good song titles to begin with. The death cramps shudders through the mildly cold meat between your thighs, and you can feel its pounding, frantic heart beats tickle your testicles. And you wonder where the farmer is, and whether the music could be performed by some vikings from Stavanger, and could their name be Cloroform and the album named Clean?
Then your crotch and abdomen is sprayed with grey brain mass, you look up at the farmer who’s looking at the pig’s last kicks, and the farmer says: "Thanks for holding him, boy."
That’s what it sounds like, flies and all, chaotic and jackhammer rhythmic at the same time. Personally I have expected something like Clean to come out of Cloroform for a long time. You could read the percussionist/perfectionist’s pregnancy between the lines of the last two Cloro-releases namely Cracked wide open and Hey You Let’s Kiss, all three of which can be ordered through Capitalism.Cloroform.com.
This album will probably scare the shit out of relatively new Cloroform listeners, and half of the less hairy Kaada fans who include metrosexual academics with iPods and vampire bartenders. But I’ve come to the realization that most Cloroform listeners are in fact really, really open to whatever the big C threesome can come up with; be it punk, gospel, cabarets, cartoons, good old rock or swine slaughter. That’s my perspective on it at least, and if you don’t like it I have others. When you listen to Clean you really start to wonder; you wonder who they were and if they deserved it. And I think they did. This concludes my review from the gut to the people, with the kind of imagery of which you all can relate.