Review by Darren Kerr
It always amazes me when bands give themselves names that could so easily be used as negative descriptions or simply as grounds for ridicule. The Cheese are aptly named.
This whole package stinks of ego, self-serving pap and Mike Curb's wallet. I'd heard the song "Plastic Flowers" on a CMJ monthly compilation and found it to be a catchy, innocuous tune with vapid, hippy-dippy words. I never thought the song was going to be the one oasis in an excremental desert of an album so riddled with musical clichés and lyrical dreck that it makes Jars of Clay sound like Extreme Noise Terror in comparison. My index finger was glued to the skip button on the trusty CD player. In fact, said CD player would not even play track #2, "The Electrifying Pussy Willow Love." Who says inanimate objects don't have any capacity for thought? This album is so bad it should come enclosed with Gravol.
Artist Contact Info: P.O. Box 4, Waldwick, New Jersey, U.S.A., 07463
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