Description
You can litmus-test yourself with the name alone. If you don't appreciate the stained-glass humor of a trio of corseted female cellists warping the moniker of the Mad Monk, chances are you're going to despise the creepy, Gothic-edged sonatas on this sophomore CD, easily one of the year's most curious releases. Get the gag? Good. You're in for one h
You can litmus-test yourself with the name alone. If you don't appreciate the stained-glass humor of a trio of corseted female cellists warping the moniker of the Mad Monk, chances are you're going to despise the creepy, Gothic-edged sonatas on this sophomore CD, easily one of the year's most curious releases. Get the gag? Good. You're in for one hell of a strange sonic trip, with campy bandleader Melora Creager as your wisecracking guide. "Strange" as in a nimble plucking of Lesley Gore's "You Don't Own Me" chestnut. Or an intensely fiddled send up of the DeBeers jewelry commercial, "Diamond Mind," with Creager commanding: "I want that diamond!/I want that thing!/A tennis bracelet, a ring!" Elsewhere, the disc is alternately jarring ("LeechWife," "Olde HeadBoard") and gentle ("Rose K," "Herb Girls of Birkenau"). Creager's subject matter gets downright sinister at times. Where else can you hear yarns concerning the ancient medical practice of leech application? Heel to shovel, Creager digs deep into the catacombs of the surreal until you have no choice but to dig Rasputina. --Tom Lanham
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