Chainsaw Penis: Hexakisiohexekontahexaphobia Review

Chainsaw Penis are comparable to infamous troll and pharmaceutical executive Martin Shkerli and by the end of this article I intend to prove it.

At the time of writing this I am recovering from flu - a virus well known for spreading when airborne, infecting all in the vicinity and destroying the hosts constitution in a matter of hours. Symptoms include driving the sufferer between blazing fever and freezing cold, sour throat, muscle and head aches, general fatigue, converting your face into a Niagara Falls of snot, mucus and other bodily fluids...and less commonly, violent vomiting and diarrhoea. Incidentally, this is a perfect apt description of Chainsaw Penis and side-effects of attending one of their gigs. Their fans more akin to that dick who just came back from Spain and caught something nasty on his last day there but came into work non-the-less, they just cant help sharing plague with everyone and telling you how great a time they had catching it.

Chainsaw Penis is a band which, for better or wor- no, just for worse, doesn't know when to quit. Not content with committing audio-genocide on the Metal music genre it appears that some tosser showed them that The Simpsons Treehouse of Horror episode where Homer overhears Lisa telling Bart the story 'The Raven', so now they're going to ruin that for everyone as well. Thanks, you prick.

Their forth album title 'Hexa... Hexa-kisio-hexe-konta-hexa-phobia... ' I cant even begin to pronounce it...fuck it. Their forth album is somewhat of an evolution for the band which, just like the flu virus, is bad news for everyone. Departing from their traditional unhealthy obsession with Tommy Wiseau ('The Room') roots they've incorporated the flavourful, super-natural elements of black metal through the inter-section of classical dark tale, literary genius... Edgar Alan Poe, though not with any degree of respect or skill (of course). A move which should unsettle the hard-core fan and the literary world alike. I promise you the final product is not JUST of expectantly poor quality, it's truly terrible, at its worst it sounds like Cradle of Filth dying and at best Iron Maiden gone completely fucking senile. Fans will not be disappointed.

(For the record, I'm only doing this review because if I do they may allow me to leave. I've been kidnapped and held in a basement prison for about two weeks now. I've survived off wall-moss and dead bees. I lick the condensation off the brick when thirsty. Not once has anyone come to clean out the litter-tray. I used to think being a prostitute to fund your heroine habit was the lowest you could get but they’re practically Paris Hilton compared to me where fighting off spiders for breakfast and not having a towering pile of sawdust and faeces fall on you in your sleep I consider to be a good day. Being the official reviewer of Chainsaw Penis is the WORST.

Not only that but after years of being coerced into reviewing their studio albums though blackmail or extortion I was told (in a rather dull manner) by my doctor that I may now never have children. All of my sperm come out with “crooked necks” now as if my ball-bag is a million-man mosh-pit where they give each other concussion before sprinting off to throw up on a old sock I keep in my draw.

Also, I miss my dog. My dog is a HUGE C.P. fan. Not my influence (see first and second album reviews). Dammit, I love that bitch but I don't love that she now wakes me up HOWLING until I play 'Disregard Females, Acquire Chainsaws', pisses on my CD collection twice daily (who hates Bjork THAT badly?! SERIOUSLY?!) only drinks knock-off 'White Lightning' and not even official brand but knock-off shit that's about 1000% and smells like a week old colostomy bag. I don't know what they did to her when they kidnapped her...but but I digress.)

Literal Party Animal

Though the bands take on the black-metal genre can be compared to asking a Chav to describe the book Dante's Inferno and receiving the answer “Dan, t'e aint dun nuffin'k. 'E dun even like infer-noes or whatevez. I ain't no grass, me!” then pisses on your shoe, the album is an oddly refreshing change of pace for C.P., Death-Metal mockery sits well at home with their sensibilities (probably though because death-metal couldn't get more ridiculous if it tried, but death-metal never had C.P. in their corner before).

Surprisingly, this album does contain tracks of note, one of such being 'My Lovely Horse of The Apocalypse'; a love-letter cover song to an retired and overly-flogged reference (you hearing me yet, FRANK?) to the once-great but now barely remembered signature television show of the 90's - Father Ted. 

The Catholic Church's Protests Against C.P. Still Going Strong

Is it coincidence that this track is a metal-bastardisation of a comedy track that was a homage to a 1975 Eurovison Song Contest entry for Ireland, thus producing an ultra-dilute rendition of the original, a trolling so strong that would send the original creators into a bile-spewing frenzy? Are C.P. really that smart? This review thinks not.

Oh, and an honourable mention to 'man of mystery' Dreamboat Starchild who is also on the album and of whom I know nothing about.

As someone who had both way before they were fashionable, believe me when I say that the only way to truly appreciate Chainsaw Penis is with hipster-squared level of irony or severe mental health issues. If technical-skill were a beverage then this album would be diet water, if trolling were a car then C.P. would be the Robin Reliant with a missing wheel. There is little good to say about this album except that you've heard this before but better and somewhere else...but not from their previous three albums which were shite.

Thankfully the album is short, nine tracks at twenty nine minutes and twelve seconds long you may wonder if you could physically bare it all without setting fire to your home just so someone will come and save you. However, you'll be glad to hear the last ten minutes is of solid silence, thus no matter what you end up paying for this album you're being over-changed by a third, although I would argue if you're paying for this at all that you are a monster who deserve everything that's coming to you and may what's coming to you be a rape-gang of stray cats to fuck you in your arse and ears with their ugly barbed cocks.

What makes this album especially challenging to someone like myself who has been forced to endure their crud for the last five years is the fact that they seem to have actually improved with time. This is dreadfully discouraging as it means that not only will they produce more music off the back of this but that they're likely to become more popular, not less. That's right, Chainsaw Penis, self-proclaimed 'Worst Band in The World', the undisputed Trolls of Music', the industry dubbed 'Murderers of Metal', the justified 'Arseholes of Audio' are sat on the rocky edge of a precipice of talent that can only be developed through genuine love for the art they produce.

If anyone should mistake this for a compliment, they are wrong.

This is the kind of talent even Nickleback would turn down. This is the kind of love that an adorable puppy gives its master after eating its own smouldering puppy-poop - oh, it may look cute and harmless but you'll run screaming like Satans finally come to collect if it chases you, rancid crap-laden tongue flailing about, to smear poop-parasites into your eyes and blind you forever.

Run away, child. Run away now and never look back!

And if you're still here, well you're not going to leave really, are you? You're going to buy this album and continue giving these trolls-in-human-skin money which will only encourage them and nothing I can say will stop you. I'm like a man trying to stop a run-away train using wet paper. The thing is I can completely understand this, I feel at home in old, dank dives of Blackpool, Newcastle or Huddersfield where old rockers and crusty-punks still reside, swilling over-priced Red Stripe whilst thrashing my hair around like I'm trying to detach my own head and paying good, hard-earned cash for Petrol Bastard tickets with no shame, dignity or clean clothes. There truly is no saving us lot. We are filth. And I get that our world is dying in the face of modern global commercialism and gentrification of music styles. Many old culturally significant haunts are gone, bought up by banks and converted into over-expensive housing, Tesco Express' or worse...hipster coffee houses filled with trendy-cunts and overly-sensitive feminists selling 'vegan-friendly, glutton-free, nut-free, fun-free short-bread for cats made by cats' and pushing badly made 'zines which, ironically...literally ironically, offer reviews of  the now underground artists who would otherwise thrive at hovels like ours if they still existed.

But is Chainsaw Penis really the answer to this new world when molotov cocktails exist, guys? Hmm, anyone?

All in all, Chainsaw Penis is back and as bad as ever, but my dog likes it and if you like music dogs enjoy you'll find the album out now at www.chainsawpenis.bandcamp.com You can name your own price for the album which is rather good for something that at the very least should come with a health warning, kinda like the antithesis of Martin Shkreli, if you think about it.