Here's what I know about funk: I don't have any, and I wouldn't know what to do with it if I did have it, due to injuries to certain important lobes in my brain which I acquired during the Sexual Revolution. Frequently I find myself sitting on a bench in Chocolate City, eating a croissant (where the fuck did I find a croissant in Chocolate City?), pondering exactly what went wrong. Even that cocksucker Sir Nose has stopped calling me, and he owes me money.
However, there are certain objets d'art that are SO ridiculously funky that even I have to shift the six-foot pole in my ass, make sure the curtains are drawn, and get down. Such a release is 2001's Funk All Y'all, which is as far as I can tell the sole release of a couple of maniacs who called themselves the Detroit Grand Pubahs. Falling somewhere between Blowfly and Parliament, taking a stop somewhere around electro, and apparently sucking down a hefty and completely mind-boggling record contract... what? Oh, they have another album: Galactic Ass Creatures from Uranus. Thanks, man. No, I'll talk to you at the Double Lanes. Yeah, 10:24. Yeah man, see ya. Dude, I'm working.
So yeah: this album. It's what some would call 'retarded' and I'm not necessarily talking about trisomy-21, although to be frank that is a possibility. Populated by serial killers, bent gynecologists (when did THAT become a cliché? in any case, we should bring it back somehow), teenaged-prostitutes and various other dancefloor zombies who only wish to hump it (two times), this album should not be played in the presence of Auntie Olga. Or maybe it should. Maybe Auntie Olga is nasty.
The masterpiece on this album, however, remains "Sandwiches." As I didn't frequent many dancefloors at the time, I can't say how popular this song was. However popular it was, all I can say is that IT WAS NOT POPULAR ENOUGH. Over yer basic electro groove, somebody who sounds like he's just huffed a Sherwin-Williams store lays it down:
I know you wanna do it. You know I wanna do it too.... Out here on the dance floor. We can make sandwiches... make your thighs like butter, baby, easy to spread...
I think he says something else, but the man sounds so sick, so abject, that it really doesn't matter WHAT the hell he says, you just want to sweat hard enough to remove his sicko stench from your skin and replace it with your own funk in the literal sense.
In any case, next time you want to have sex, put this on aforehand and if yer luvmuffin doesn't immediately call the police, you've got a winner on yer hands, pal.
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