The Manichean conception of the rock history says that, in the beginning, there was chaos, a turbulent cesspool of pop culture that fed off and eroded the genteel traditions of Western culture. From this confusion and formlessness rose the prophet Zappa, uniting the sublime and the absurd amid arching guitar solos, holy hosannas des latrines de Chartres. From there, it pretty much boils down to so-and-so begot so-and-so, with certain offspring taking the high road while others took the low. Bands like Sonic Youth and Pavement built their names and legacies on aspiring to the highbrow camp, their reputations gradually gaining momentum until the achievement of Canonical Indie Rock status. And then there's the Moldy Peaches, the musical equivalent of the pull-my-finger gag, who prefer references to blowjobs and buttholes over Mark E. Smith and John Cage.

Kimya Dawson and Adam Green are the Sonny and Cher of post-millennial toilet humor. But, still subscribing to the slacker ethos of mid-90s college dropouts, Dawson offers a bipolar, type-a confusion in lieu of Cher's wide-eyed, free-love naivete. She's as likely to sit bleary-eyed in front of a "Scooby Doo" cartoon as she is to dream of clawing out the eyes of the prom queen. And standing in for the awkward "I can't believe I scored this piece of ass" straightman, Green fulfills Sonny's role with a more updated "thank god I've got this genuinely cool chick who'd like to claw out the eyes of the prom queen" schtick.

The Moldy Peaches' sound is as lo-fi as imaginably possible. The first seven of these 22 tracks are unpredictable, hilarious and, despite the sloppy, couldn't-give-a-shit delivery, the songwriting is really pretty good for a couple of bedroom wanna-be-Beat-Happenings with a four-track. Of course, it's hard to keep this kind of thing up for long, and things eventually start to go down the crapper (as it were).

The rest of the album ranges from the whimsical acoustic musings of "Jorge Regula" and "Anyone Else But You" to the manic "What Went Wrong" and "Greyhound Bus." There are touching moments, sure: the kooky heartbreak of "Nothing Came Out" ("Without forty ounces of social skills/ I'm just an ass in the crack of humanity/ I'm just a huge manatee") that somehow mixes in references to G.I. Joe, Ron Jeremy and He-Man. There's the irresistible, mind-in-the-gutter boogie of "Downloading Porn with Dave," sounding like a road trip down Route 66 with Hunter Thompson and Linda Lovelace ("Sleepin' in a van between A & B/ Suckin' dick for ecstasy"). There's the tripped-out spookiness of "These Burgers." But for every hit, there's an ass in the crack of humanity. Witness the wack b-boy embarrassment of "On Top," or the asinine pep-talk to blooming geeks everywhere, "D.2. Boyfriend." It's not a pretty thing.

One thing the Moldy Peaches have going for them is their utter lack of pretense. It makes it difficult to criticize because, despite its terrible unevenness, what you hear is exactly what they intended. Also, the fun that was obviously had during the recording session is infectious-- there are moments when Dawson and Green are trying as hard as they can not to bust a nut laughing. And while childish, things like this enhance the replay value.

It remains to be seen whether the Moldy Peaches can reproduce their achievement here, or whether we really want them to. But I can see the duo as the one of those unexplained groups that disappear as soon as they've arrived and cascade through the years as a cult favorite. And for all of us who feel like we grew up trapped in a Todd Solondz script, we've found ourselves a couple of friends for our damaged inner child.

-Nathan Rooney, December 17th, 2001