And I have no doubt these kids will be playing the shuffling piano requiem "Live at the Apocalypse Cabaret" when the American dollar crashes into dust and the dark fog of an even Greater Depression spreads itself like a heavy blanket across this nation of cowardly fools. The song's lyrics say it all, really: "Scarecrow / you ruined me / Now I've caught my hands in the death machine / Fed my children to the lions / Made me watch it on the television."
Crimes isn't a political work, though; it's purely an aesthetic commentary on the ruinous effects of U.S. imperialism. Images speak louder than ideological ranting in the case of the Blood Brothers. And their sound is louder than Fallujah at daybreak. Indeed, these guys perform with an intensity that rivals the skin-blistering white-phosphorous grenades our very brave Marines are using on Iraqis in clear violation of the Geneva Convention. Hell, the band isn't so much playing its instruments as it is destroying them.
Sonically and lyrically, Crimes details the horrors of the gift of "liberation," with wrapping paper made of skin and a bow of brain matter.
Go on. Open it.
