Cursed Tomatoes – Baby of God (reviewed by Dave Franklin)

I’ve listened to this half a dozen times now and I’m still not sure what is going on. But then, the best music is challenging. The best music is weird. The best music doesn’t have to make sense. In fact, things are better when there is a whiff of confusion in the air. And this confused the hell out of me.

A metal groove with an emo vibe? Rock and roll compressed into a ball so dense that it bends gravity? A grindcore stomp to exorcise negative emotions? A salvo of lyrical contradictions mixing melancholic self-reflection with fruit-based references? A solo artist that sounds like a band? Riot Grrrl punk-art for the new age?

It’s probably all of that and more? All you can do is forget about labels and genres and enjoy this sonic voodoo ritual for what it is. After all, search the artist name and you just get sites full of baby pictures, google the track title and you end up being pushed towards a well-known film review site. Looks like you’re on your own. But that’s fine, sometimes it is better to appreciate music without any back story or prior knowledge.

So let’s get back to that. There is a belligerent streak running right through the heart of Cursed Tomatoes, one that refuses to conform, looks you right in the eye, gives you the finger and probably deliberately spills your drink too. But the more you play the track the more you fall for its unruly charms. Like a sonic drug which you know isn’t going to be good for you, which you know is going to really mess up your life but which you know you are going to return to again and again and again.

So, here I am on the tenth spin of the track and you know what, it still doesn’t make sense but whereas before that seemed a problem, now it is its charm, its whole reason for existence, its unique selling point. Now all you want to do is stomp around to it, punch the air to it, celebrate it, celebrate with it, scream from the rooftops, jump in a 69 Camaro with this blasting out of the eight-track and drive off into the sunset in search of the songs creator leaving only dust and disappointment in your wake.

By the twentieth play, I’ll probably wanna be Baby of God’s roadie!

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