Catman Cohen .|: How I Want To Live [First Look] Review

Discovering a gloriously awful album is even rarer than finding an excellent one. Many conditions need to be met before an album can reach the level of atrocity representing that label. Hunter’s haunted jackass helped summon the demons of auditory perversion to draft this list of applicable bits.

Obvious unutilized talent [1]
Poor song choices [2]
Genre bastardization [3]
Bad chaos [4]
Eruption of unintentional comedy [5]
Perverse re-listenability [6]

After nine months of magnificent to mediocre efforts, Catman Cohen’s How I Want to Live earns a well-deserved Worst CD in a Hell a Long Time trophy. “What the ‘eff” has been redefined with Catman’s disgusting vocals. He sounds like a tone deaf vomiting troll. If that in itself is not sufficiently horrible for you, he belches with an ensemble of session-quality vocalist in a variety of ill-fitting genres [5] -- intoxicating au courant dance, updated Giorgio Marauder disco, Meatloaf served theatric rock breaks up the slack-jawed monotony of the inconceivably vile easy listening slag [1+ 2+3].

How I Want to Live, though, casts a few quality moments. Sarah Taylor ‘s [1] soulful interpretation of Cohen’s preachy lyrics counters the countless missteps of Henry Iglesias (producer / vocalist / arranger) and Catman. “Heaven In My Mind” shines as a hauntingly melodic thumper -- it’s the perfect dance track … addicting and orgasmic. Better yet, Catman’s deadly Midas touch of crap is void here. In fact, anything that picks up the tempo and stashes Cohen or the overstepping Iglesias into the background flourishes. Gravely, howbeit, they have an omnipresent quality on the disc.

Catman Cohen is a botched copy of Leonard Cohen-- his words are too literal and uninspiring. How I Want To Live's intended statement relates the dwindling prospects of our water sources and call for immediate action. There is no storytelling, but a regurgitation of research (“Water is Blood”) mixed with bad jokes (“My Vegas Pussy“). Made even worse is the composer’s vocal utilization, Cohen attempts to banter lines with quality singers -- it’s not only disturbing, but cringe-worthy and endlessly silly [5]. The message is lost when your urge is to turn it off.

Henry has singing ability, but rides cheese ball vanity project into random envelopes of flaccid compositions [4]. He did not write the words and someone needs to pick up the slack Cohen’s aural bludgeoning, but the producer is best served in the background. Iglesias promotes himself upfront too often. When he does, he casts himself in a boring templates that drag endlessly (“Father You Believed“).

I listened to How I Want to Live multiple times in its entirety, so you never are possessed to. Only sadomasochists can find pleasure in reliving Catman’s aural disaster [6].

Gene Gregory ~ Live & Raw

A rotten place leads me to Gene Gregory’s Live & Raw. His voice screeches from a vile place – it’s as abrasive as a Saw film filtered through pools of foul sewage and diseased rat carcasses. Very few of us can or are willing to brave the inhalation and ingestion of this … and those that do are looking for the hidden treasure. It better be one hell of a trophy, since I inhaled a quart of shit and a room full of rats.


Live & Raw is a soundtrack to another person’s autobiography. Each track is powerful lyrically and musically melodious. Gene delivers with intended vitality. Everything dies, though, due to a calculated judgment error – an intentionally poor vocal recording.


The gimmicky delivery of Gene’s music is conceptually flawed and comes on as desperate. Rawness is not factored in poor quality vocal treatment – in fact, it makes the listener try that much harder to receive reward. If you’re a relatively nameless artist, it is not in your interest to ride tricks that confuse and turn off potential fans.

SAMRITA ~ DEMO

The checklist attributes for potential pop superstardom include: massive cash reserve (for marketing, media and production support); x-factor quotient (attractiveness, accessibility and personality); vocal chops (charisma, tone and flexibility) & relatable bonus talents (song composition, instrumentation and dancing ability). On a 3-track demo only a sampling are identifiable.

Samrita is presented as a Scottish ingénue that leans heavily on her musical education and artistry, but can captivate with her accessibility and tenderness. Once received, the demo lazily drifts out of sight. Every track features slack melodies, modest / wispy vocals and uninspired lyrics. In fact, all star power belongs to Rob Jones (musical composer) – his supporting tracks offer a vivid backdrop to the otherwise ordinary talent.

Without a money boat, mediocrity drowns. She is physically attractive, but needs to focus on songwriting and charisma to galvanize interest.

Carl Platou ~ Frozen Eve

Imagine the former band, James, reforming and with a tone deaf Ian Dury impressionist. Disappointed, yeah? Worse yet, the storytelling is aimless and overstuffed with clichés. Even sadder, the instrumental arrangement is excellent – however, it supports the unsupportable bile dredge that makes up Frozen Eve.

There are 12 tracks. Very little outside the promotable quality of the musicianship can be highlighted. The songs splash with the sounds of a drunken karaoke sailor randomly crowing to his adroit beat. The combination sours the aural palate more than the bankrupt acts because of Platou's wasted potential

For the Norwegian to realize his English promise, he needs write stronger lyrics and find a singer that can portray them in a manner that elevates his wonderful dark pop sound.

The Beers ~ A Taste of the Beers

 

The Beers are the musically inclined tone deaf. They have an extremely long and erratic history as a band. A Taste of the Beers is a sudsy and scattershot retrospective of their clumsy career.

Even though their CD is enveloped in laughable packaging the beer-goggly/inconsistent quality of this recording, their creative musicianship actually pierces the some of the refuse. The vocals are mediocre based on those whom they attempt to feign (even when compared to other indie artists and Lou Reed).

The Beers musical support is comparable to a cagey Flaming Lips. Throughout the 16 tracks, the sounds are quite intriguing and melodic, lyrically solid and produced with a quirky delivery. It totally should have been something I liked ... but it stunk.

Steve Lieberman ~ Desert Fever Brigade

Filtered eccentricity is a gift. Creativity needs a funnel -- otherwise, it gobsmacks everyone with unfixed mucky blather. The Gangsta Rabbi (his self-designation) has no internal control center. Desert Fever Brigade revealed random excess to an indefinite degree. For example, he listed that among the instruments used were a bass guitar, transverse and happy flutes, trombone, fiddle, beat machine and his voice. 22 tracks are compiled from 11 years of composition.

Steve Lieberman is a kind corresponder, obviously excitable, persistent (even with the realization that most dislike his music) and some may even refer to him as a visionary. Titles like "Hippy In the Legion of Skin-heads" and "Jewish Riot (Acoustic)" are borderline hysterical. Therefore, it is somewhat disappointing that the instrumental mush and pathetic vocal recording make one not able to comprehend his lyrics.

Feel my pain! Nearly 70 minutes rolled, while a terrible tornado of sonic cruelty slap-dashed into one maniacal entity. Mr. Gangsta Rabbi verbalizes apparent rants that reminded me of a disturbingly psychotic Balki (apologies for Perfect Strangers reference). Knife-like was Steve’s use of the flute -- it waived and then pierced progressively with high pitched and blood-transfixed precision. Forget the use of an actual recording studio, Desert Fever Brigade had to have been recorded on Fisher-Price’s Tuff Stuff Sing-Along Karaoke Tape Recorder.

Steve’s effort and basic concepts are exemplary, but mercilessly flog innocent bystander upon delivery. Every once in a while, even when creating something "visionary", it’s useful to consider critical voices and common sense.