Share FUTURE - Die Zorros (Voodoo Rhythm)
Trust me on this one. There might be a fine line between genius and insanity but all but the truly insane leave one foot planted in the Principality of Reality. Not Die Zorros. You'd be challenged to find a toe-print in the real world. Onetime backing band for Swiss poetry slams, Die Zorros, have morphed into a low-brow, musical meat grinder. The results are both disturbed - and disturbing n- in a great way.

LIsten to most Music To Ruin Any Party and it has Voodoo Rhythm bossman Beat-Man behind it. That phrase is the tagline for his label - and so it goes with Die Zorros. They're a trio with Olifr.M.Guz and Patrick Abt supplying keyboards and guitar respectively. Beat-Man is behind the drums. There are two rules with Die Zorros: No song takes more than 10 minutes to work up. And nothing is sacred.

Die Zorros apply reverb twang guitar, primal rhythms and triple cream cheese keyboard lines as blunt instruments to bludgeon cabaret and AOR radio standards to death. They have blood on their hands and they like it. It's worthy work but it's not for the lactose intolerant. Lots of songs were harmed in the making of this album. Most deserved it.

Die Zorros turn schlock pop standard "Feelings" into a space rock dirge. The late Amy Winehouse's "Rehab" is twisted into a Farfisa-driven chant ("No No No") with the worst drum solo you'd hope not to hear, and what Die Zorros do to the Beatles in "Taxman Eats Walrus" would have the departed ones all shook up.

Let's face it, the Moody Blues and Rod Stewart have both been begging for a good kicking for years. "Nights In White Satin" turns the original on its head while "Sailing" is hung, drawn and quartered with an off-key refrain and running commentary (in German) by a local DJ. "Apero In Der Holle" gives it to Van The Bland, right between the eyes.

Favourite moment: A dead heat between the electronica desecration of "Paint It Black" and the Telstar-goes-down-in-flames surf wipe-out of "Meek My Joe."

If the carnage becomes all too much, there's a wad of decent garage-surf going on ("The Shark"), a warped metal pastiche ("Black Sabbath") and a jazz assassination ("Streets Of Baltimore") to get off on. Most clock in under two minutes so it's easy enough to move on to the next car crash.

It's neither an album of deliberately fucked-up covers where the joke runs thin (a la Tex Perkins and His Ladyboyz) or one overloaded with irony. Ruin YOUR party.

- The Barman




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