Record Reviews

The World Is Fucked

EVERETT TRUE falls in love with the radio-friendly stylings of up-and-comers Primitive Calculators.

This is a nasty, vicious, misanthropic, spiteful album and I never want to hear it again.

A few months back I got myself into a shouting match with a bus driver in the Brisbane CBD. He wouldn’t allow me to take my coffee onto the bus. I needed that fucking coffee. ?What the fuck?? I asked. ?I’m hardly likely to spill anything. I’m not even going to drink any of it. I’m just carrying it two stops.? He refused, point blank – pointed at the sign. NO DRINKS. (First I had to take my headphones off to discover what he was whinging about.) The discussion soon degenerated into name-calling, with him using what, in the circumstances, was a particularly sparkling piece of witty repartee: ?Takes one to know one.?

The first track on this vengeful exorcism of a return album from Melbourne’s Primitive Calculators is called ?No?. It ends with some 50-year-old ingrate screaming cheerily ?Stick it up your arse? over and over again. I’m imagining it could be vaguely negative: a brutal rejection of society’s mores and the pressures that surround you as a fading, failing adult. (Life doesn’t get any better as you get older. You don’t get less angry. Far from it.) It’s brutal and repetitive and squalling and vicious and I don’t fucking want to ever hear it again. Bastards.

The second track on The World Is Fucked is called ?Why? and it could be the first track again, frankly – seems like the sort of sick joke these cunts would try to pull off – but it ain’t. It is, however, even nastier and more alienated and vengeful and repetitive and with those drums pounding into your head like a jackhammer morning spent without any fucking coffee cos that cunt of a bus driver wouldn’t allow you to take it on the bus with you. There’s an instrumental break around the three-minute mark that is designed solely to irritate the fucking fuck out of people – and nothing else. Good on them. Cunts.

The third track is called ?Pain?. For six months now I haven’t been able to lift my left arm above a certain point cos it feels the joint is being wrenched out of sync, and any sudden movements cause me to spasm and dry heave. My right wrist aches with every word I type: I’m waiting for it to go numb so I have an excuse to do fuck all. ?Give me something to kill the pain,? the ?singer? screams over and over again, over clipped and weirdly truncated sound. ?Give me something to kill the pain.?

The welter of white noise at the end of ?Pain? is misery unleashed. It reminds me of early Industrial Records artist [Monte Cazazza]( and I have never wanted to be reminded of early Industrial Records artist Monte Cazazza. Pricks.

The fourth track is called ?Love? and is the most honest love song I have heard since The Passage’s [?Love Song?](’v=SvVLPhEiFPM). Song of the year, in case any of you fucktards care about shit like that.

?It goes, ?I love God and God loves me? but I don’t believe them for a fucking second.?

A few years back now, I found myself in a shouting match with a bruiser of a nightclub bouncer masquerading as a sports shop manager in Brighton, England. He was about seven feet high and built like a brick shithouse: I knew he’d be refusing my request for a refund for the shoddy goods he sold my wife before he even got to me – he was stopping every few feet to casually readjust clothing displays. By the time he stood there, towering over me and intimidating as shit, I’d got my mobile out and was threatening to call the police. It went downhill from there. Serves me right for going into a fucking sports shop.

The fifth track is called ?God? and it goes, ?I love God and God loves me? but I don’t believe them for a fucking second. Some fucking climax, though.

As I pointed out last year on [Collapse Board](*, it’s unsettling how much track six, ?Cunt?, echoes the classic Alberto y Lost Trios Paranoias punk parody EP *[Snuff Life](’v=BrQi66kxd-I). Still, it’s a thin line between hate and humour.

666 words. I’m stopping.

Bunch of bitter, going-to-seed, 50-something men and one woman pretending they’re still 17. I can relate the fuck out of this.

The seventh track is called ?Dead?. It’s filler. It still sounds more vital than 20 generations of your fucking asshole-wipe triple-j-chasing Sydney middle-class-entitled asshole shits.

The eighth track is called ?Sick?. I’ve already been on record as stating it was my favourite song of 1977 [2012](

?An unstoppable descent into The Void, something we all know the fuck about at this age.?

I can remember fuck all of my previous existence, just a few snatched and bloody snapshots. I’m 15 and on Scout camp, ripping a friend a new asshole, tearing him apart inch by inch. ?Punch him Thomas,? everyone else is screaming at him. ?Punch him!? I’m 10 years old and I’ve been sent home from school again for hospitalising my teacher. I’m 19 and under threat of court action. I’m 28 and spewing sideways out of cab on the way to destination unknown. I’m 32 and it’s Reading Festival and I’ve been hospitalised for excessive alcohol consumption. I’m 36 and fucked up out of my brain on alcohol and cunts are still running the world. I’m 43 and fucked up out of my brain on alcohol and cunts are still running the world. I’m 52 and fucked up out of my brain on no alcohol and cunts are still running the world.

The final track on Primitive Calculators? debut studio album The World is Fucked – they formed three decades ago and only released one 7? single then, in 1979 – is called ?Nothing?. It starts a cappella but soon becomes an unstoppable descent into The Void, something we all know the fuck about at this age.

I can relate the fuck out of this record. And I never want to hear the fucker again.


##?The World is Fucked? is out now through [Chapter Music]( Launch dates below.

Sat, Dec 7 – Toff in Town, Melbourne, VIC [w/Little Bands]
Sat, Jan 18 – The Red Rattler, Sydney, NSW
Sat, Feb 1 – Brisbane Hotel, Hobart, TAS