Word: fucked
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...glasses and a pink sweatshirt. She's chatting with a man tinkering with the monstous engine of his Mustang. "What's it like running out there?" she responds to our question, "Tonight was shitty. The accelerator was loose and the fuckin 'clutch jammed and I was slipping all-the-fuck-over the place!. But it's always something, I guess. It's good times, though." Could you really do any better at Lucky Cheng...
After 30 seconds, "the thing" moves into "drinking artist," in which Fuck quickly and gracefully throws off the weight of the connotation and begins the album again in a very different vein. A single guitar picks out a tranquil, wandering melody, allowing listeners a few seconds to absorb the shock of the transition before Prodhumme (sounding very much like The Flaming Lips on a particularly sober day) enters with an endearing, wavering voice to ask what it really means to be an artist: "You concentrate/get strait/calculate/what it takes to be an artist...
Even though Fuck often tries too hard to prove--with lyrics that are annoyingly bitter and whiny--that they are more than just a dirty word (after all, you made your own bed, Fuck), Fuck's music isn't always depressive. As the album progresses away from self-reflective artist anxiety, the music becomes a gigantic toybasket of styles. "Monkey-doll" is a Beatles-esque, upbeat true story of Fuck's tours with a stuffed monkey (rumour has it that Fuck never performs without a pile of stuffed animals covering the stage). "Italy" is a beautiful love ballad evoking images...
Ultimately, Fuck is at their best when they are sincere, and this sincerity arises primarily in the many slow, contemplative ballads on Conduct.The last song on the album, "blind beauty," is a lovely and fitting end to an album that strives to take itself seriously with a variety of incongruous textures, styles and ambiguous messages. In an arrangement Fuck seems to favor, a single guitar strums slow chords, accompanied only by a simple snare beat and an extremely sparse bass line. Prodhumme sings without affectation or stylized humor about the inability of anyone to truly know themself: "Talkin...
...peaceful acceptance of ambiguity, Fuck ends the album with an admission that they don't really know who they are. They are content, ultimately, to be stuck between styles with a name that has seemingly nothing to do with who they are. Listening to Fuck, one never feels the need for reconciliation. The lack of sense makes sense--disorder, after all, is sometimes a necessary relief. And what really is in a name? In the end, would Fuck by any other (rational) name really sound as sweet...