The Great Redneck Hope

Ten minutes can be an eternity. Take, for example, the Great Redneck Hope's new CD, Behold the Fuck Thunder -- a nine-minute-and-eighteen-second, eleven-track geyser of heaviness and schizophrenia that stretches (shrinks?) the idea of the "full-length album" to the point of implosion. It takes longer to read Fuck Thunder's song...

By Jason Heller

August 19, 2004

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Ten minutes can be an eternity. Take, for example, the Great Redneck Hope's new CD, Behold the Fuck Thunder -- a nine-minute-and-eighteen-second, eleven-track geyser of heaviness and schizophrenia that stretches (shrinks?) the idea of the "full-length album" to the point of implosion. It takes longer to read Fuck Thunder's song titles that it does to listen to the songs themselves. The disc's opener, "Whoa, Frankenstein! I Didn't Program You to Make Out With Boys!" is a neck-snapping 26 seconds of prankish samples, apeshit guitar and geometrically plotted pandemonium. Even at such speed, though, the band's inspirations are easy to detect: Besides the looming influence of Dillinger Escape Plan's jazz/metal gene-humping, the foursome has obviously ingested ADD-inducing quantities of the Locust, Daughters and probably those suspiciously missing demon-hamsters from the Quizno's commercials. Luckily, it's also obvious that the Great Redneck Hope (which will be celebrating its record release on Tuesday, August 24, at the Construct) is as inventive and imaginative as any of its better-known and equally fidgety peers. Forever never seemed so hyper.

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