Shitting and dying: Somewhere between these two smelliest of biological inevitabilities lies the music of Man Man. The Philadelphia trio slings a mixed satchel of keyboards, trumpets, marimbas, guitars and twitchy percussion, taking aim at just about every left-field style of sonic esoterica imaginable: post-punk, merengue, klezmer, pop, doo-wop, jazz. On the group's self-titled debut, couplets like "And I want her to know/That my heart ain't carved of bone/And I want her to know/That my heart ain't a bar of soap" are gruffly crooned over what appears to be an orchestra of jars of bees and gyroscopes. Meanwhile, werewolves and Peruvian monsters wage a battle between potty humor and messy mortality using Tom Waits, Frank Zappa and Need New Body as foot soldiers of the absurd. Whether your bag is eschatology or just plain scatology, Man Man is a must.
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