HATE IT! part 1 - You are my flower

In the "HATE IT!" sections of this blog, you will not find me giving an actual review of an album which I dislike, and giving due explanation of my distaste. You will simply find me abusing an album or band which I find particularly excremental. The band in this case is Brooklyn's own Ida, and the album is "You are my flower", to which I reply: "You are my nightmare." I had a roommate years ago who positively adored (and probably still does) this band. As a result, I was subjected to their pabulum strains for untold hours on end, in spite of my vocal protestations. While they do actually perform some really nifty Prince covers, the songs they themselves write can only be adequately described by pulling out one's hair by the fistful and swan diving from the aurora bridge in Seattle into Adobe software's nicely paved parking lot below. God knows I wanted to every time I was subjected to it. It is absolutely the most inane, boring boy/girl pap you will hear in your life. Period. It drives me to violence in its maddening placidity. It is anathema to life itself. This is what taking a nap sounds like. This is worse than eating a bowl of teeth and hair. This is the gentlest, most frustrating rape my ears have ever endured. It sounds like the picture on the Massengill box. This is what it sounds like when the most sensitive poet on earth makes wine from the tears of a butterfly, and then slips you a roofie and sticks both feet up your asshole while you're out of it and leaves you to wake up covered in rose petals and rancid semen. It is so drudgingly fucking slow that the music has no discernible beat or rhythm. It sounds like someone thoroughly enraptured by the process of their own slow death by a horrible disease. I would not wish this on Hitler. I would rather die than listen to Ida again, because their music just isn't worth living through. An F is far too kind, so it gets an "E", for "emetic". And the only known antidote for these guys is Motörhead.