I like Christmas. I like the gift-giving because I’m generally a very good guesser when it comes to figuring out what someone wants. I like the food because it involves showing off one of my few skills (The baking, not the consuming. Ahem.). And I like writing holiday cards.

Throughout my life (short, if you’re a octogenarian, long if you’re a caterpillar), I’ve built a reputation for writing really great cards. I’ve made people cry, made them laugh, made the least likely to write back respond within days. I have two penpals in the military, both in Iraq, but more impressively, I have an astounding 100+ greeting cards ready to be sent to eager friends. (I counted them just for this column, and I didn’t include the sheets of special handmade paper or sticker collection.)

The December month for me is filled with red candles, baked goods of all kinds and events, like last week’s gingerbread-house decorating party.

The month is also packed with cards. Lots and lots of greeting cards.

I have about 75 people I MUST send a note to and about 50 others that I ought to write. This year, I’m having trouble getting started on my list. Perhaps it’s because, to date, I have received ONE card. And it’s from a former editor so it practically doesn’t count.

It’s also because the past few months have been some of the hardest in my life. Joyous and full of progression and movement, but hard. Very hard. So what do I write in my cards? I can muster the usual non-sequitur jokes, the goofy signature, but I worry I won’t have much news.

It’s my first year in the working world and I find it difficult to keep track of successes as concretely as I used to. In internships, you finish the employment. You get a recommendation. In school, you complete a course, you build toward your major. In my graduate school, you get a piece published. There are built-in ways of measuring progress and success. Two -ess’s I’m finding very important to my life.

In the year (almost) that I’ve lived in New York, I can tick only two things off my list. I got a challenging job and a beautiful apartment. They weren’t easy feats, and I am certainly not taking them for granted, but the -ess’s are scarcer than they used to be.

I’ve made up for it in other ways. I’ve become — those of you who know me will howl with laughter — a bikram yogi. This means I practice high-intensity, fast-paced yoga in a 120-degree room for 90 minutes, five days a week. This is not the focus-on-the-end-of-your-nose, tinkly music kind of yoga. Last week, I made it through my first session where I completed every posture. To put this into perspective, for the first week or two that you practice bikram, the goal is simply to stay in the room for the full 90 minutes.

I signed up for a pottery class, and I’m working on ways to practice (and hopefully revive) my Spanish skills. All of these are in an effort to create goals that can be easily understood in terms of accomplishment.

But holidays are about ham, not hamstrings. Chimneys, not kilns. Nobody wants a card about that.

This story was published February 17, 2005 in The Cavalier Daily, U.Va.’s student newspaper.

Season changes stress me out. The transition from one type of weather to another forces me to reorganize my closet and puts unnecessary strain on my sinus cavities. My eyes are watering for other reasons, because I believe CDs are seasonal, too. I wouldn’t think of listening to breezy O.A.R. in the dead of winter or sullen Rainer Maria at the beach.

Having said that, Lagwagon’s new album, Live in a Dive, is the perfect CD to get you through the layover.

I was excited to review the live album of this old-school punk band and gushed endlessly to my friends until I realized none of them had heard of Lagwagon. Assuming you are equally unaware, let the mists of time reveal a few pertinent facts.

In 1990, when flannel was still cool, Lagwagon singer Joey Cape met NOFX’s Fat Mike at a bar. Some months later, Lagwagon was the second band to sign with Fat Wreck Chords, the largest independent recording label of the ’90s. The Fat Wreck line-up grew to incorporate favorites like Less Than Jake, No Use for a Name, Screeching Weasel and Propagandhi.

Lagwagon hasn’t produced any new music since 2003, so the live album is a real breath of fresh air.

The production on Live in a Dive is excellent. It tightens the sound without losing the spontaneity and raw effects of a live show. Live in a Dive was recorded at the House of Blues in Hollywood in May and June of 2003. The set list includes a track from every Lagwagon album, spanning more than 10 years. This CD also has two brand-new songs: “Mister Bap” and “The Chemist.”

“We actually wanted to have a song on the live record that was only on the live record,” singer Joey Cape explains before “The Chemist.” The song is a definite throwback to the early days, with fiery guitar riffs and quick cut-offs. The band lures the listener in with chill reggae beats and then smacks them in the forehead with a smokin’ guitar riff straight from an ’80s hair band.

Fans can tell that Lagwagon rode the front of the “So-Cal punk” wave because they have a harder edge not found in the pop-punk bands of today, such as A Simple Plan. Lagwagon still embodies the founding characteristics of punk style, such as witty lyrics, blazing guitars and rolling drum beats. On tracks like “Burn” and “Alien 8,” Dave Raun’s drumsticks move faster than a hummingbird’s wings, never dragging the tempo or skipping a beat.

Squealing guitar solos go down smoothly in songs like “Falling Apart,” from the 2003 release, Blaze, and the audience goes into a frenzy on the opening chords of “Sick,” a track from Lagwagon’s most popular CD, Hoss. The song chugs happily along until the bottom drops out as the band pauses, letting the audience members sing a few bars by themselves. Who says punks don’t do a cappella?

Another Hoss track, “Razor Burn,” tells the true story of how Joey’s wife left him for a “Don Juan in Italy.” Joey dedicated the song to “all the people that just quit shaving,” and the lyrics follow, saying, “She has a new man/I have a new moustache/She found out I was lame/So I grew a beard of shame.”

Lagwagon’s album doesn’t redefine its music, but I would recommend Live in a Dive for fans unfamiliar with the lesser known side of punk — i.e. not Blink 182. If you’re looking for something to tide you over until you can safely listen to summer music, try a taste of Lagwagon; the feverish, fun pace of their songs offers a light, breezy listening experience without quite breaking out the SPF 30.

This story was published July 25, 2005 in The Cavalier Daily, U.Va.’s student newspaper.

“Best of You,” Foo Fighters’ new radio single, begins with the lyrics, “I’ve got another confession to make.” That phrase sums up most of what this record has to offer. In Your Honor is a two-disc compilation: The first CD has guitar-heavy, soaring hardcore and the second shows off some introspective, melody-conscious acoustic rock.

In a FF press release, singer Dave Grohl explains, “[by making two contrasting albums and] splitting the difference, you eliminate the middle ground. We can make the acoustic record far more delicate and beautiful and atmospheric than anything we’ve ever done … and we can make the rock record far more brutal and aggressive and powerful than anything from our past.”

And that’s exactly what they’ve done — just when we thought Grohl couldn’t dig any deeper, he breaks through with the most personal lyrics yet.

Most of the album is kindhearted, interesting and empathetic. My biggest complaint, lyrically speaking, is the annoying repetition of the chorus in “Best of You.” (As a note, this song is both the biggest radio smash and the worst track on either disc.)

In Your Honor was recorded in 12 days at Grohl’s studio in Alexandria, Va. The short time span lends intensity to both CDs, adding depth and character instead of diminishing the calmness of the acoustic tracks.

The acoustic disc has a line-up that could kick TRL to the curb, including piano and mandolin from legendary Led Zeppelin bassist John Paul Jones. Other notable contributions come from Norah Jones, producer Nick Raskulinecz and Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme.

“Still,” the five-minute opener to the acoustic disc, is one of the best songs on either CD. Its smooth and creamy flow is capped by finger-picked guitar and an unusual sweetness in Grohl’s voice, but the song’s best feature is the bare, syncopated thrum of the piano. Used to punctuate refrains, the low notes from the keys make the song seem important and profound. That’s deep, man.

The rock album has its moments, like “The Deepest Blues are Back” and “End over End,” but the real genius is in the acoustic stuff. There’s something lacking in the harder songs — it’s like the bottom level of the music just isn’t there.

I’ve had that problem with other FF records, the fact that the band misses that clean rock sound and their product sounds too fuzzy. Honestly (just like the lyrics, I too have a confession to make), I’ve never been that into the Foo Fighters.

I think Grohl and the band are a washed-out version of what they could be. It’s aggravating to know that members of Queens of the Stone Age, Nirvana, Jackson United and Probot are satisfied writing sugary mainstream hits like “Times Like These” and “Walking After You.” In my mind, the FF regain a little street cred through “Breakout’s” energy, the catchy chorus to “My Hero,” and the epic awesomeness of “Everlong.” But, I still feel that the Foo Fighters are wasting their potential — they’ve chosen to make margarine instead of butter.

In Your Honor is the kind of album that I would recommend to new Foo fans, despite the mediocrity of the rock songs. It’s a direct clue to what the Foo Fighters can — and can’t — do.

This story was published April 7, 2005 in The Cavalier Daily, U.Va.’s student newspaper.

When I went to Plan 9 to pick up The Bravery’s self-titled debut album, the guy who rang me up looked at the CD. “Oh, hell yeah!” he said. Eagerly, I asked if he liked the album. He handed me the receipt, looked at me funny and said, “Oh, the CD? I haven’t heard it. I was just saying ‘hell yeah’ in general.”

I put the album in my Walkman and left, a little confused. That feeling hasn’t gone away.

Maybe I’m just feeble minded, or maybe it’s because The Bravery’s lyrics are crappy and don’t make sense. Either way, The Bravery is chock-a-bock full of clichés and incomprehensible phrases.

Exhibit A: “Too many fingers/too many thumbs/something wicked this way comes/the best time I ever had/waiting around for something bad/and I know that’s why you love me, chica.” The only person allowed to use “chica” in a professional music setting should be Carlos Santana.

Despite the wack wording, I liked the album. The melodies are catchy, and there is something endearing about five guys wearing eyeliner and dancing stiff-legged. I spent last summer listening to The Faint’s Blank-Wave Arcade; now I associate hot weather with heady drum beats and plenty of synthesizer, two prominent elements of The Bravery’s sound.

The first appealing track, “Out of Line,” begins with choppy synth work and a catchy drum beat. Soon, metallic guitars lighten the mood and airy vocals pull everything together. Clearly the album’s best, this song shows The Bravery’s knack for cohesive, dancey music.

“Give In” reminds me of U2, but without any underlying messages. In fact, that’s a defining feature of the album — The Bravery is shallow music. It’s only strong on the surface, but I’m still captivated by its charm.

Tracks like “Swollen Summer” and “Public Service Announcement” are the band’s attempt at avoiding labels (Bad ’80s Cover Band) or catching flak from music scenesters (SPIN’s harsh verdict: Jocks with Makeup.)

The hair band guitars and frenetic beat in “Swollen Summer” power a multi-vocal chorus: “It’s like a swollen summer/what if I’m getting dumber/what if I’m just in denial/what if they come and cop my style?” Three questions that keep me up at night too, boys.

And just when the lyrics couldn’t get any worse, the Strokes-y “Public Service Announcement” delivers the ultimate diss: “You put the broke in broken hearted/you put the ‘art’ in retarded.”

The Bravery’s single, “Unconditional,” has gotten medium-heavy airplay on MTV for several months; through music videos and interviews, they have been branded a superficial, image-obsessed group of New York posers. Their CD carries that vibe; the liner notes say, “Recorded by The Bravery … in various bedrooms and at Bushwick Studios.” I get the feeling the guys haven’t been in the scene long enough to gain the necessary humility. Part of being indie/emo/underground is suffering in silence, unless you’re Dashboard Confessional, in which case you suffer on airwaves all across America.

I don’t like The Bravery’s emaciated lead singer, their blurry press photos or their vanity and apparent self-absorption. But the music is great.

So I’m just going to say “Hell yeah,” and leave the decision up to you.

This story was published September 8, 2005 in The Cavalier Daily, U.Va.’s student newspaper.

I’ve had it. I’m serious now — I have had enough of the somber, self-serving, sniveling, sad-faced music of today. This means you, Elliot Smith, Bright Eyes, Nick Drake, Dashboard Confessional, Damien Rice and The Decemberists. You too, Belle and Sebastian, Coldplay, The Shins, The Smiths and … Death Cab for Cutie.

Put the guitar picks and piano pedals down, sad fans. It’s not that I dislike the above bands, it’s that I’m sick and tired of feeling sorry for myself. For God’s sake, can’t we be cheerful, just for one teensy track?

Death Cab for Cutie’s new album, Plans, is a masterpiece in the art of misery. There’s talk of hospitals, death, break-ups, one-night stands — it’s all here. But what makes the CD incredible is not its content — it’s the way the songs are presented, in sweetly-penned lyrics and golden tones.

Plans is DCFC’s first album for Atlantic Records; their other four were released by Seattle-based indie label, Barsuk. Transatlanticism, which came out two years ago, brought the band their highest level of recognition yet. It even earned them a mention on The OC, and believe you me, that’s the real way to gauge your self-worth.

Plans and Transatlanticism share many common elements, like DCFC’s classic airy sound and electropop vibe. Drummer Jason McGerr compared the two: “If Transatlanticism was an inhale, Plans is the exhale.”

He’s right. In Plans there is an aspect of breathing out, of disappointment, of the end of something, even if it’s just the final step in the intake of air.

The album’s first three tracks are the most enthralling. “Marching Bands of Manhattan” showcases Ben Gibbard’s sweet, luscious voice while “Soul Meets Body” uses tiny melodic variables that intrigue you, while maintaining a comfortable feel.

My favorite is the third track, “Summer Skin.” The combination of simple piano chords and unrelenting tapping from the snare drum inspire the most feeling in me. It is here that Death Cab has achieved their ultimate goal: I am able to take their lyrics and apply them to my own adventures while staying true to the emotional path the band originally intended.

I am continually impressed by Gibbard’s ability to form powerful lyrics, like “On the night you left I came over/And we peeled the freckles from our shoulders/Our brand new coats were so flushed and pink/And I knew your heart I couldn’t win/Because the season’s change was a conduit/And we’d left our love in our summer skin.”

The acoustic-osity (somewhere, an English professor is cringing) of the album builds in the latter songs. “I Will Follow You into the Dark,” “Someday You Will Be Loved” and “What Sarah Said” sound remarkably like Simon & Garfunkel, with a twist of Lennon.

Plans is worth your money and your time. It’s a lovely collection of sad songs — if that’s really what you’re in the mood for.

This story was published Febraury 24, 2005 in The Cavalier Daily, U.Va.’s student newspaper.

Music is supposed to inspire, to enliven, to invigorate. It should also ask questions of the listener, questions like, “What if God was one of us?”, “War: what is it good for?” and “Who let the dogs out?”

They Might Be Giants’ new children’s album, Here Come the ABCs, raises its own pertinent questions, like “Who put the alphabet in alphabetical order?”

It’s a good question, and in the midst of midterms, some well-placed kid’s music works wonders.

“Alphabet of Nations” begins with Booker T-style traveling music and moves smoothly into pop-happy piano. The alphabetical list of countries includes favorites like Kazakhstan and Zimbabwe, as well as “West Xylophone.”

With twangy guitars, a muffled drum machine and syncopated background quacks, “Q U” will cue you to correctly spell tricky words.

A later track, “Who Put the Alphabet in Alphabetical Order?”, adds depth and vitality to the album with an operatic female vocalist and pounding keyboards.

“L M N O” has a base in Jamiroquai-style funk, but is crowned with what can only be classified as “spaceship noises.”

If psychedelic ’60s-style Brit-rock is your thing, then the doubled vocals, echo effects and distorted guitars in “Pictures of Pandas Painting” will blow your mind.

Tracks like “Clap Your Hands” and “E Eats Everything” are as catchy as the flu, and they pack an educational punch. For example, “C is for Conifers” offers interesting tree trivia and the philosophical “Can You Find It?” considers the linguistic difficulty created by silent letters.

Here Come the ABCs’ lyrical highpoint takes the form of a spoken sequence between the letters D and W:

D: W, you think you’re so great.

W: Well I am pretty big.

D: Yeah, you’re okay. You’re just not as great as you think you are.

W: How come I never see you around anymore, D?

D: I got this big T.V. set at home, and I like to watch the sports.

From pandas painting to sports-loving letters, Here Come the ABCs is a record with diverse musical styles and zany lyrics. And while I wouldn’t spin it at a party, They Might Be Giants’ kids’ album inspires, enlivens and invigorates, just like music should.

This story was published Febraury 3, 2005 in The Cavalier Daily, U.Va.’s student newspaper.

Each time I play The Fiery Furnaces’ EP, I wince — any charm the album offers is lost amid disjointed lyrics and a lack of musical intuition.

The EP is flaky and immature. For example, the bangy piano intro to “Duffer St. George” could have been composed by two angry five-year olds. The lyrics could have been written by their younger siblings.

Lead singer Eleanor Friedberger’s vocals in “Sullivan’s Social Slub” are high and girly, and the pronunciation of Iceland as “icy-land” is unbearable.

The incomprehensible lyrics in “Evergreen” detract from what could have been a pleasant chorus. The strange phrase, “Needle prick my spruce root,” punctures the song’s otherwise appealing qualities.

We, as students at the University of Virginia and members of an elite academic group, are trained to suss out meanings and truths from the muddy language we encounter in philosophy essays and Biochem textbooks. The lyrics on this album could stump the most scholarly students — the Furnaces create words at will and, as seen in the CD jacket, toss apostrophes into their sentences like pepper onto scrambled eggs.

In the fourth track, Matt, the male half of the Fiery Furnaces, makes a vocal appearance. He sounds like a cross between Elliot Smith and The Who’s Roger Daltrey. “Sing for Me” gets boring quickly, but boredom doesn’t offer the listener respite — there are no track breaks. This lack of recovery time taints the listening experience. It’s like ducking your head into icy water for 41 minutes.

In “Duffer St. George,” the flute and recorder orbit around each other without ever making harmonious contact. A lack of similar riffs and rhythms increases the overall obnoxiousness of the track.

In “Smelling Cigarettes,” The Who and The Beatles are in full influential force. The lilting spoken/sung lyric pattern in the subsequent track, “Cousin Chris,” is a cheerful show tune style. This song is the album’s best.

“Sweet Spots,” the ninth track, is the album’s shot at electronica. It is perky synth pop that is disoriented but not discombobulated. And while the guitar didn’t make my face melt, I think my mascara ran a little.

The second track, “Here Comes the Summer,” is the most mainstream-friendly piece on the EP. It has a drum machine, some distortion and a synthesizer bopping and blowing in the background. Synthesized trumpets lend a mystical Emerson, Lake and Palmer flavor, adding depth to the song.

This album is only for diehards. Despite their merits, listening to The Fiery Furnaces is like shaving with a really dull razor. Eventually, you just get irritated.

This story was published September 22, 2005 in The Cavalier Daily, U.Va.’s student newspaper.

I’ve never taken drugs. Growing up, I thought Mary Jane was a girl in my school who I’d just never met. I thought yellow jackets were insects, crack was an onomatopoeia used in Batman comics and ecstasy, well, that was just waking up on the right side of the bed. I think if I’d taken acid, I would have tripped — and fallen.

Yet after listening to The Dandy Warhols’ fifth and newest album, Odditorium or Warlords of Mars, I think I know what it’s like to be high.

The Dandys have always been a little out there. Dig!, a documentary featuring Brian Jonestown Massacre and The Dandy Warhols, won the 2004 Sundance Grand Jury Prize and became something of a phenomenon in the dark underbelly of the pseudo-pop world. (That’s a joke. There is no dark underbelly of the pseudo-pop world.)

In the film, the band’s trippy antics and sheer spaciness fell like sprinkles on ice cream between moments of insight and poignant honesty.

Their music also carries that half-baked feeling. Odditorium kicks off with a minute-long intro of a man satirically describing how The Dandy Warhols created rock n’ roll. The next track, the first real song, wanders on for nine and a half minutes. It features Courtney Taylor-Taylor’s characteristic airy voice and an understated but steady backbeat. While the song has its merits, most of them are lost amid the ambient noise and obtrusive breakdown at the end of the track.

The next song has a Curtis Mayfield, “Pusherman” kind of vibe, especially when Taylor-Taylor slips into a falsetto amid the groovy bass line and slick trumpet work.

“Holding Me Up” is the first song on the album that really conveys the characteristic sexiness found in most Dandy Warhols songs. In the following track, the slinky sounds turn moody when Taylor-Taylor croons, “Well, I have toiled and I have tamed/Constricted and constrained/Just to learn about/How everyone is totally insane now…/Hear me out, for I was joyful once like everyone/Hear me out, I must have changed.”

Both songs offer the familiar pouty, sultry Warhols sound, and both find themselves without a real message. They are empty songs, floating emptily through an empty record that was written by empty musicians. It’s a harsh accusation, but it’s this characteristic that makes The Dandy Warhols endearing. They’re self-indulgent, but they don’t claim not to be.

Aside from the prolific use of a trumpet and some quasi-country stylings, the only thing that distinguishes this album from the Dandys’ others is that it’s more difficult to connect with.

Having said all that, there are some good songs on the CD. The girly vocals and smart lyrics on “Smoke It” will take you right back to The Dandy Warhols’ most famous song, “Bohemian Like You.” While the final track runs a full 12 minutes, the heavy synth and echoed vocal effects make it worth the effort to get there.

Ultimately, that’s what this album is about; it’s as if the Dandys are more interested in the process of making music than the final product. It’s about the journey, the trip. Whether you do it via acid or not.

This story was published February 10, 2005 in The Cavalier Daily, U.Va.’s student newspaper.

It’s not often that I feel the need to call things beautiful. Beaches, babies and beauty queens don’t do much for me, but …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead’s new album, “Worlds Apart,” is in fact, beautiful. I love every inch of it, from the Parental Advisory sticker to the majestic guitar work and grand cello sections.

The album opens with a piano and string arrangement that builds to the unthinkable climax of a woman screaming. The song is called “Ode to Isis,” and the sense of foreboding it creates seeps through the rest of the album.

The second track has maracas, tambourines and a driving beat that extends the anticipation created in the intro. “Will You Smile Again” then sinks gracefully into the sharp street-corner song of a jazz trumpet. Before I could get my feet back under me, the drums returned, accompanied by male vocals similar to Oasis’ Liam Gallagher’s.

The next song makes me wonder if The Strokes, The Rolling Stones and The Ramones each put a band member into a blender and pressed “puree.” It has jangly guitars, simple drums, a multi-vocal chorus and a highly politicized list of lyrics, including the following: “Look at these c***s on MTV/with their cars and cribs and rings and s**t/is that what being a celebrity means/Look boys and girls, here’s BBC/see corpses, rapes and amputees/what do you think now of the American Dream?”

The following track begins with sleepy piano and boring vocal patterns, but it builds beautifully into a song with an orchestral climax that rivals anything U2 ever wrote. The lyrics are from someone who is confused but optimistic, saying, “And though it makes no sense/know there are no accidents.”

The next track is also solid. The catchy chorus clambered into my brain and stayed there, rattling around until I hit the repeat button.

The following song, “Caterwaul,” could be mistaken for a Beatsteaks song, or just something from the late ’90s. Nevertheless, it’s the kind of song that needs to be made into a music video. I envision myself driving home after an argument with my (currently nonexistent) boyfriend, making that crucial transition from sad to pissed-off. I’d be pounding out the backbeat on the steering wheel and singing really loud. Trust me, it’d be cool.

One of my favorite tracks, “A Classical Arts Showcase,” sounds like early Jets to Brazil. It moves into a luxurious string piece with female vocals, but despite the music’s smoothness and depth, the memories of the woman screaming in the first track leave me feeling nervous.

“To Russia My Homeland” beautifully shows off the band’s real musical ability. Ticking snare drums and swaying violins give breadth to the CD’s scope and breathe life into the album.

“The Best” reminds me of Ugly Organ-era Cursive in its pounding tempo and bare bones style, and the opera singer in the background makes me think of Damien Rice’s “Eskimo.”

Unfortunately, my earlier fears were confirmed: the last 15 seconds of “The Best” swept away my pretty thoughts as the same woman began screaming, begging an unknown torturer to stop. I am not made of cotton candy, but neither am I made of iron; it took me four tries to finish the track.

Even with the scary screaming, I adore every second of this album. It shows the band’s talent at fusing chaotic thrash-rock and pretty orchestral backing without smearing the styles together like goopy finger paint. I’d recommend this to people who like melody in their rock, people who like rock in their melody and people who can appreciate beauty when they hear it.

This story was published October 6, 2005 in The Cavalier Daily, U.Va.’s student newspaper.

As I listened to Bloodhound Gang’s purty little new release, Hefty Fine, I found myself drifting off to a dreamland… one where I had a booming bass system and a multiple personality disorder. To put it plainly, I couldn’t think of what to say about this CD, so I decided that things would be a little spicier if I wrote in interview format. Now remember folks, the events that follow are fictional, and the characters in this program are not based on anyone alive or dead. Except me.

Molly: What’s your favorite song on the album?

T-minus Molly: The first song, “Balls Out” has the traditional BHG vibe. You know, with the hardcore guitars and fast-paced, whiny lyrics.

Molly: Does that mean the rest of the CD doesn’t sound like that?

T-minus Molly: For the most part, it’s much softer than One Fierce Beer Coaster and their older stuff. “Uhn Tiss Uhn Tiss Uhn Tiss” has a Euro-trash techno sound, hence the song title. I spent most of my time listening to this track, because it’s the easiest to get into.

Molly: Which song is the worst?

T-minus Molly: “Farting with a Walkman On,” while built around a great premise, falls flat as far as actual “music” goes. But as an album, Hefty Fine represents pretty well.

Molly: It represents?

T-minus Molly: Yes.

Molly: Could you explain what you mean by that?

T-minus Molly: No.

Molly: Moving on then, I’ve got some lyrics to quote: “Vulcanize the whoopee stick in the ham wallet/Cattle prod the oyster ditch with the lap rocket/Batter dip the cranny ax in the gut locker/Retrofit the pudding hatch with the boink swatter.” What does that mean to you?

T-minus Molly: They’re all euphemisms for uh, genitalia. Now, the lyrics may seem crude and inappropriate, but that’s really what BHG is all about. They’re childish, but we all enjoy a little immaturity every now and then.

Molly: Good point. Everyone remembers the lyrics to the 2000 smash hit “The Bad Touch.”

T-minus Molly: Also known as “The Mammal Song.”

[Both sing]: “You and me baby/Ain’t nothin’ but mammals/So let’s do it like they do on the Discovery Channel.”

Molly: In any case, it’s about time to wrap things up.

T-minus Molly: You gonna wrap up your boink swatter?

Molly: Whatever. So should I buy the album or not?

T-minus Molly: You should.

Molly: Why?

T-minus Molly: Bloodhound Gang is a lot like Tenacious D. They have wildly immature lyrics and so-so fashion sense, but the music is catchy as hell.

Molly: Kind of like an STD for your ear.

T-minus Molly: Hey, way to be lewd. Get out of here.

Reader, thanks for sticking around. Next week I’ll be back on my game, especially if I get a cranny ax in my gut locker. Or an STD in my ear. Whatever that means.