Have you ever heard about those chaps who pay to have huge needles shoved through the head of their penis and large lumps of surgical steel installed for the purposes of personal decoration? I think they’re called ‘Prince Alberts’? Someone showed me theirs once. I didn’t ask to see it - there was a time in my life I was a trainee nurse and I’ve seen horrific body distortions plenty of times so the idea of observing genital mutilation in my leisure time wouldn’t have been something I would have sought out. The chap who flashed the flesh at me was a drummer, so I guess that might help you understand the mentality behind his passion for penile puncture.

As an aside surely anything that would make your groin area a larger target for an accidental mid-set blow from a high powered wayward drum stick would be a bad idea? If I was a drummer I’d tuck all my trouser furniture well away before thumping the tubs, I certainly wouldn’t force large chunks of steel into my purple love hat to increase my changes of the wrong kind of blow. Anyway I’m wandering from the point faster than my eyes wandered away from that drummer’s point that bizarre evening. What I’m getting at is that while I have no interest in perforating my plums or pudding stirrer I don’t think any less of anyone that does. I have no understanding at all as to what pleasure could be derived from such a brutal act, and to tell you the truth I have very little ambition to find out.

I’ve always felt the same way about nu-metal.

Death by Stereo may claim to be punk but as far as I’m concerned they’re as nu-metal as Fred Durst’s Armour plated underpants (seriously, just how many people must try and kick that guy in the junk?) And seeing as I’m unlikely to visit any of the hovels in which members of Death by Stereo dwell and rifle through their CD collection (or vinyl if they’re true punx) then it’s unlikely that I’ll be swayed in my impression of them as nu-metallers.

You’ve probably figured out by now that this might not be the most complimentary review this band has ever had. Any review that starts with a paragraph on genital piercings is unlikely to be the kind of review that any band member hurriedly prints out before running over to mummy’s house to proudly stick it to her fridge. It’s important that you don’t think I disliked this album just because it’s not punk, that would be stupid. I don’t want you to think that I didn’t dig this album based on any kind of prejudice at all, although that being said you don’t always have to taste a turd to know it is shit flavoured.

So let’s assess the evidence…

The album starts with the most overly macho grunting and count in I’ve ever heard since Gladiator followed by a riff I swear I’ve heard at least once a week for as long as I’ve had ears and could say ‘mummy make the bad noises stop.’ However this festival of predictability is then soiled further by some really horrid vocal harmonies, they sound more like they’re a result of a computer preset than the product of a creative and musical mind. Before the track is out another few metal / hardcore boxes are ticked thanks to some grunty growling and some hoarse shouting.


The second track dispenses entirely with originality by accenting EVERYTHING with double bass drum strikes. Now I’m not adverse to double bass drum rolls, but I’m not a fan of them being followed by some ‘heard it a million times before’ vocal pleading from a singer with the guts to offer us lines like ‘And if I never came back home, let down and alone.’ It’s a bit like enjoying the outer husk of a scotch egg only to bite into the centre and find that someone has replaced the boiled egg with a large lump of polished puss harvested from a collection of boils on the ring piece of a rabid goat with a penchant for vindaloo and a relaxed attitude to rectal hygiene. But at least it’s a short chorus and the duelling guitars that follow certainly put things in perspective. Duelling guitars are for Iron Maiden only, cramming them like so much genital jewellery into every crevice of every song doesn’t make you Janick Gers from Iron Maiden, hell, it doesn’t even make you Vim Fuego from Bad News.

As the third track ‘I Sing For You’ starts the guitar sounds thin and almost like it’s being played from an old record, then the rest of the band kicks in with their huge modern metal production. I nearly fell of my chair, not because I was blown away, more because every muscle in my body went limp in a desperate attempt to make me fall and strike my head, thereby ending the torture. Somehow I remained conscious long enough to hear Death by Stereo’s vocal homage to Bon Jovi then I could feel my pulse slowing and I had to leave the room to recover and seek isotonic sports drinks.

At the end of the day I wouldn’t like this even if it was punk, I want to make it clear however that I wish no member of Death by Stereo any specific genital discourtesy and I’m sure they’re all lovely people who run mini-marathons for good causes and help old ladies when they drop their shopping in the street. Disliking this album is evidence that I’m playing my small part in this wonderful merry go round we call life, if we all liked the same things then Simon Cowell really would rule the earth.

I still can’t give you a single good reason why I didn’t like this album, it’s a bit like when I had a swab forced down the end of my penis at a sexual health clinic, I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t really tell you why, I just know I don’t want to go through it again.