El Dopa The Complete Recordings

You'd be hard-pressed to dig up an uglier, meaner, more mean-spirited band than El Dopa. Certainly not that other El Dopa from Boston. This El Dopa crept up from Oakland like some Devonian creature crawling on land for the first time. They existed briefly in the mid-90s, oozing bad vibes that hinged heavily on a skuzzy early Neurosis punk roar and gloomy lyrics detailing suicidal, drug-addled and humanity-hating rage. Though they figured into the Gilman scene and featured members from the decidedly more life-affirming bands Econochrist, Grimple and Samiam, El Dopa sound like they hate you, hate themselves and hate the veil of conscience that stands between staying in and shooting up, or climbing a bell tower and shooting you. With that in mind, it makes sense that "singer" Greg Valencia yowls and screeches like Eyehategod's Mike Williams. There's a fair amount of that band's tortured squall in El Dopa. Both exude agony and an unhealthy preoccupation with self-destruction. But neither band would sound quite the same or even exist were it not for their vices and lack of virtues. Tee Pee Records culled El Dopa's rather modest output onto one handy compact disc, which consists of the 1332 LP (the band changed their name to that number prior to their disbanding thanks to the more litigation-minded Beantown El Dopa), the first seven-inch, two demos and a live show. Most revolve around the LP's dozen numbers. "1332" sets the tone: a slow, careening near-metal riff jumps into a speedy punk part. That breaks into a suitably moshable, circle pit-oriented half-time rhythm. Valencia snarls viciously over the din, his saliva almost seeping through the mic, out of the CD and into our faces. On "Wrong End," he sounds like he's ripping his larynx out and chucking at the nearest bystander. The song is warped and thrashing, like finding yourself at the receiving end of a sure and painful jailhouse beat down. They up the velocity on the Heroin-charged (The drug The band It can go either way) "Infected." It rages forth then collapses into a bruising Sabbath-style riff. You barely make out Valencia's garbled scream, "Lying awake in a shallow grave," before the thrash returns. 1332 ended with the Union of Uranus-like "Dormant," which rumbles with thick as concrete guitars, roaring like beasts from the maw of hell. It's instructive to analyze what El Dopa wails about on their songs. Some of it is rather rote for the genre: "Doomed no hope lost control all alone" and "all wrong no rights." Amidst their wrangling with inner demons, El Dopa did show muted signs of political leanings. But they proclaim their true intentions when they spit: "I just want to get fucked up/Self-destruct and rid my mind/because I'm so fucked up." Not exactly Shakespeare, though "Elated sticking needles in the burning tears of candle wax" does come close. Or perhaps not. If there were any doubts about their insistence on defying the 80s Nancy Reagan mission for us all to Just Say No, they make it clear as the juice waiting in the syringes in hand: "Life is a pressure cooker/Better off tapping the vain!" Sick indeed. Bottom Line: If you enjoy a tumble in the existential muck of life, then El Dopa is for you. If you're prone to bouts of dueling your wrist with sharp objects, you might want to avoid their discography. Save it for the Prozac moments in your life.