Let's not get too lost in discussing the filthy imagery associated with this album. The AIDS-loaded mattress you sleep on every night, lodged between a dumpster and a dead hooker in the discharged, piss-saturated alleyway that society has long forgotten. Little rodents nibbling on your gout-ridden toes, openly accessible ever since the thin layer of steel wore away two or three seasons ago. No way to get that fixed now that the supporting industry as also eroded. That permanent hangover or comedown has become a comfort, with the occasional splashes of joy now feeling like the unwelcome stranger, rattling your pathetically frail, alcohol dependent frame.
Instead let's discuss those magnificent gruff vocals that sway like a junkie on doll-day, trying really bloody hard to say something meaningful. But continuously failing. Alternatively choosing to just croak and mumble and splutter as an additional instrument, dominating the devilishly sinister throbbing, the ear-bleeding screeches, the dying breath clattering and everything else the Rat Kingers decide to label a composition. Occasionally, to everyone's surprise, a little phrase sneaks through in asphyxiated clarity over the surrounding groaned landscapes. "You should be more fucking paranoid" is about as close as we get to anything even pretending to a "hook". Shouted over monotonous foot-stomping, it breaks up the frequent testy-thrusting attitude of Tramp Stamp, punching us in the throat with it's immediate impact, as well as highlighting the fact that some phrases are probably worth getting tattooed across our lower backs.
And this is an album obsessed with such regrettable life decisions. It's a drunken mess. Hours ago the fun wore off, now you're just throttling towards the inevitable morning migraine and porcelain cuddle. It's tired, worn down by the sickening feelings associated with irreversible wrong-doing and non-functioning brain patterns. And, best of all, this abhorrent existence is lovingly embraced.