The wit of The Rat Problem feels directly proportional to a discrepancy between traditional pop structure and nihilistically sexy lyrics. The ear is a conformity frequently enjoyed by a mainstream audience but a rat will eat it if necessary.
This album knows what it is doing but doesn’t apparently care. Even if you get the wit it doesn’t matter because it’s a record and it’s nasty fun that’ll trump your bottle rocket and uncle who’s the dean of MIT. Go ahead and laugh, it’s easier to turn the musical process on it’s head than to probe it’s emergence. An homage to every recording that’s already made because at the end of the day you can laugh at all of them equally effectively. That’s the point. If it’s there or it’s not it’s already there. Fuck cleverness.
There is wisdom clawing to get out of this record. It might not even care to get out. It may just enjoy inordinate clawing.
All pop music could be witty but isn’t. We can always claim that this is a failure of the audience, of the masses, which crave not language games and musical neologisms but cheap exterminators that are nice to the family and do not play Rammstein while they work. Perhaps I am writing on the wall here, but it may be that they’ve got us already beaten, the record execs and doll faced turds. Wit demolishes wit. The wittiest wit of all is totally witless. It’s come. It’s gone. If you’re on a search to find it the public has every right to ridicule you for acting like a fucking vermin hunting for cheese in a toilet. A heartfelt thanks to The Rat Problem for reminding us of this.