Oneida

New York's Oneida are one truly fucked up band. They are subliminally rambunctious, approaching the madness that was the early Butthole Surfers, but along the way they became too enamoured with psychedelia, which seemed to overtake their punk roots like a permanent bad acid trip. They might also be a Mr. Bungle-like take on surf music, but one can never be sure. What is also strange about the group is that they don't necessarily make "songs," they more or less get caught up in elongated moments of deep thought and dwell on it musically. What gets filtered and remains is the "higher" end/spectrum of pop music: they extract the essence of it and create a concentrated version of it. Everything points towards pure madness, as the tracks progress things get a little more crazier and crazier, to the point where they get lost within themselves; the organs get far too super-psychotic and the guitar sounds like it was recorded in a garage in the English moors. The repetitive beats trip and skip over each other like broken hypodermic needles being used on a record player. Oneida have this possessive quality to them and before you know it, you are tripping out with them while lovingly descending into the pits of hell until it's too late.