Sailing The Seas Of Cheese

In 1991, I used to hang out with these chicks. They were, shall we say, really into a band called Jane’s Addiction. Coincidentally, there is a band I violently detest called Jane’s Addiction. I actually spoke the words “if Perry Farrell comes over here, let’s sucker-punch him” to a friend, during set-up for Lollapalooza 2003 (Farrell luckily didn’t approach.) If you are listening to Jane’s Addiction, and the recording is distorted by a throaty, otherworldly moan, it’s a sure indication that I am within earshot.

Thus, in the spirit of diplomacy, I would engender discussion of music other than Jane’s Addiction that the girls liked. Agent Orange was an easy sell, but then of course they focused on the mushy late-80s stuff, like “Fire In The Rain”. The best album they introduced me to was undoubtedly Primus’ Sailing The Seas Of Cheese.

Because of this album, I ended up purchasing numerous Primus CDs, over a substantive length of time. Sailing The Seas Of Cheese has entered the 25 Club, alongside Ween, Mr. Bungle and Naked City; music I’ve consistently spun for over a quarter-century. That’s just over half my life.

Other Primus entries display sheer talent, but none quite ascend to the peak that STSOC does. They had two discs before this, and there have been many since. They’re another three-piece dynamo, like Rush and The Police. Singer/bass player Les Claypool is an alien. He’s an alien! That’s the only possible explanation!

The first track is an introductory sketch, using deep cello to simulate rolling sea waves. “Come with us, we’ll sail the seas of cheese.” An invitation, to enjoy the cheesiness that Primus would kinda overdo in later efforts. Here, it’s just right.

Track two is “Here Come The Bastards”, which bookends the album with “Los Bastardos” at the end. Underneath the cheese, Primus makes some poignant commentary on the hazardous effects of working-class American life. No matter what you accomplish, the bastards will always stomp into town and ruin everything.

The strident, martial drum beat and ripping guitar evoke the cartoonish oppression of The Wall‘s marching hammers. I bring up Pink Floyd because this album is Primus’ Dark Side of the Moon.

After the first interlude with the bastards, the “American Life” suite begins, starting with “Sgt. Baker”. Here Claypool begins to show off proper on bass, knocking the song back and forth with drummer Tim “Herb” Alexander like a flaming ping pong ball. Even while performing astonishing fingerboard trickery, Claypool sings, inhabiting the uniform of a drill sergeant the equal of R. Lee Ermey. Larry “Ler” LaLonde intensifies the tone on guitar like mud stamped under combat boots. These guys were utterly in their moment when they cut this disc.

“American Life” is the centerpiece of the first act, beginning with uncanny basslines wriggling like maggots in a trash pile. The lyrics detail a handful of grim everyday existences; families arriving at Ellis Island, a refugee working minimum wage soldering audio equipment, a homeless veteran living in a cardboard box. LaLonde gets to really shred on the solo, over Claypool’s throbbing bass rhythms. This song does the unthinkable, in that it’s technically as sad as Suzanne Vega, but it fucking rocks like old Billy Joel. I’m more excited about the next two tracks though.

“Jerry Was A Race Car Driver” was a HUGE hit, to put it mildly. Despite this, I never grew sick of it (I never watched the video, so YMMV). This is just an unstoppable song. It’s so good you don’t realize the technique put into it. Three guys evoke a buzzing, active racetrack with their instruments and minimal sound effects. Simulating speed and momentum in the mode of a pop song; that’s really something, folks. Combined with the storytelling power of the lyrics, GOD! WHAT A GREAT FUCKIN’ SONG!!!

That song deserved to be a hit. The playing is not only skilled, but inventive and the definition of energetic. Can you imagine the stamina required to be a member of this group? Guys like Les Claypool go on to play mellower music because a doctor warned them their heart would eventually carbonize.

“Eleven” is my all-time favorite Primus song. It is so titled because its time signature (for the verses) is 11/8, like DEVO’s “Blockhead”. I dunno why, but 11 makes it extra good. Nigel Tufnel would agree. The paranoiac lyrics back up my earlier comparison to The Wall.

The following track, “Is It Luck?” is a manic blowout at rocket speed. Again, it amazes me that Primus sustained this energy in live concerts. For all I know they still do. Like I said: aliens. For fuck’s sake, they share a name with an alien god. Ha ha ha!! I made it past 700 words before I mentioned it!!

Next up is the intermission sketch “Grandpa’s Little Ditty”, which I can’t fault, because it’s barely over 30 seconds, and it’s where I learned that “flatus” was the formal term for fart gas. Actually, I might have picked it up from GWAR’s Flattus Maximus, the previous year. Flattus was GWAR’s longtime guitarist, until he was retired following the death of his human host. Much like the cover sculpture of STSOC, Flattus Maximus looked cooler than screaming shit.

The second hit single of STSOC was “Tommy The Cat”, which was technically the first place I heard Tom Waits (voice of Tommy). This is a solid number, but it’s the lightest and fluffiest of the album, and it’s the only one I catch myself wearying of. Claypool’s vocal work and bass playing are surgically sharp, however. I would not put this song down.

I find “Sathington Waltz” enjoyably creepy, but I implore you, do not listen to this song if you are nauseous. This is the music you hear in your head when you are desperately hunting for a secure place to vomit.

The final act begins with the popular “Those Damned Blue-Collar Tweekers”, a thumping dirge that expands the “working class bastard” theme.

Those damned blue-collar tweekers
Are the backbone of this town

I’d never heard “tweaker” before this. I guess they’ve existed as long as meth has. I’m not really what you’d call an expert on methamphetamine, outside of what I see on Breaking Bad. 

“Fish On” continues the “Fisherman Chronicles”, from Frizzle Fry (“John The Fisherman”). It turns a simple fishing trip into a rollicking Melville adventure. As in the intro, Claypool’s bass simulates the rumbling wood panels of seafaring vessels, against thundering tides of drums. Their ability to paint a picture even in the wordless sections is greatly acute. They knocked this orange album clean out of the goddamn park.

The outro, “Los Bastardos”, makes a splendid closer, as the band riffs the first measures of the second track. As it descends into chaos and sirens, a sample of Vyvyan from The Young Ones repeatedly screams “SHUT UP YOU BASTARDS!” Let me tell you, my affection for The Young Ones is so profound, I know that Vyvyan is screaming at ringing church bells. So, ha.

Subsequent Primus albums have been good, but none have achieved the tonal and aesthetic completeness that STSOC did. If you want a justification for the “Primus Sucks” gag, that’s the best you can ask for.