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Ass Baboons of Venus
Phuket A La Bum Bum (Bulb)

Proudly described by Bulb owner Pete Larson as "Bulb's most retarded release yet!," these 16 poop- and turd-obsessed tracks, delivered by the S.F.-based Ass Baboons of Venus, are designed to disrupt the daily lives of people who read CMJ and think it means something. They're also good for dancing. Guitar licks that can only be described as "steaming" (courtesy of noted "anal emperor" Bob Limp) play off the squealing, heavily accented vocals of Japanese comedian Naoko Nozawa, all to the thumping, squishing sounds of programmed beats. The Ass Baboons perform a song about all the various things that are brown, rhyme the word "nothing" with "ass," and rework the creep-wave jitter-dance punk of Devo's weirder shit (think "Shrivel Up" and "Peek-A-Boo").

The best way to experience this one, besides the obvious use of angel dust, is to go find Ray Romano, kill him, then jam the CD in your butt crack and hop around your apartment screeching. Phuket A La Bum Bum is the rock music equivalent of that joke that ends with the line "You should have seen the monkey trying to put that cork back in!" (Mike McGuirk)

Paul Wood
Blues Is My Business (Lucy)

For the past several months, every time I've walked past the small CD shop in Oakland's Montclair Village, I've noticed the big poster in the window for Blues Is My Business, Paul Wood's second album. Although recorded in Memphis, the 10-song CD rightfully inspires provincial pride. Indeed, on the final track, an acoustic bottleneck blues called "The Mojo Man," Wood sings about boogieing with John Lee Hooker (he played and recorded with the late legend) and declares, "Some day I'll go back to Montclair in a long black limousine." That boast is just one of the ways Wood updates time-honored clichés of the genre for his personal ends. "Transforms" might be a better word, for much of the CD has a classic '70s blues-rock feel – thanks to producer-guitarist Jack Holder. A gritty singer, an intense player, and a functional lyricist, Wood should appeal to fans of Stevie Ray Vaughan (heaps of mercurial and squalling electric guitar licks) and Robert Cray (blasts of Memphis-style horns over a tight rhythm section). In "Everything Dies but the Blues" he uses words written by his father, the late beat poet Paul Tulley, and a Hooker-inspired groove-and-growl to make a convincing case that he knows what Tulley was getting at. (Derk Richardson)