I can't judge this disc by its cover, because I got one without cover art. Can I judge it by its title? Here's a clue: this may be the single worst album title of all time. Worse than Morrissey's Kill Uncle. More pretentious-sounding than Yes' Tales from the Topographic Ocean. About as apt as Black Grape's Stupid Stupid Stupid. The music's not a whole lot better, either.

Remember the excitement one would get slipping into that hot tub of techno? Who knew how the bubbles were going to tickle and relax you? The Heretic of Ether is like being in a bathtub on Bean Night with those two really fat guys who ride mopeds. (You don't know who I'm talking about? Check the Guinness Book.) There's not a single refreshing or right-brain-happy moment, and this is coming from a guy who smokes a lot of weed.

As a tribute to the band, the disc, and the wasted time, here's a thorough dissection of how bad this album is, beginning with...

Chapter One
Yes, this disc comes in three "chapters" for those who like cataloging their masochism. As is the law with albums that aspire to an ambient level, The Heretic of Ether begins with the token ODF (Ominous Drone Fade-In) before the bagpipes kick in for a minute-- sort of a warning shot across the bow. The bagpipes retreat, then in come the strings, then the big spooky Middle Eastern percussion, and then it's five minutes of bad new age music. Am I in New Mexico? No, I'm suddenly in a room with the world's worse Lisa Gerrard impressionist. Even though she's yodeling in a foreign language, I think I know exactly what she's singing:

You fool!
I can't believe you're still listening!
We're having fun
Spending your cash
Purple hotdog monkey

Or something like that. Then it's on to some incidental music from "Kung Fu," then it's a few minutes of tortured genius-type classical piano music that even the guy from Shine isn't crazy enough to think is good. A minute later, in comes the bassline, the bongos, the cellos, the overwrought standard-issue genericism and... presto! They're still beating off and we're not even done with Chapter One yet. There's another yodeler on the horizon, singing:

Generous cretin
Tell your friends
We need more suckers to buy in
Channel your anger into
Screwing over your friends
Let's hear it for unstable people

"Part Six" draws to a close with a brief retrospective of Talvin Singh's career: tablas, tablas, tablas! How fresh. Next thing you know, Badawi's going to say they discovered radium.

Chapter Two
Called "The Etheric." I sure could go for some right about 20 minutes ago. Where's the phone book...?

"Hi, Dentist? Could I buy some ether off of you?"

Fucking uptight law-abiding asshole dentist. I'll stuff his cavity up with Badawi, the earth's best-known suppository. You wanna talk about stuffy, let's talk about "The Etheric." It sucks like the rest of the album has sucked so far, only now it sounds like one of those annoying Rachel's songs. Just a bunch of strings whipping back and forth, further padding the pea of idea with a pod of filler. As it fades out, a lone standup bass note appears... then it's more of the same yawning orchestra pit idly flipping through magazines while playing. You know, like phone sex operators. ("Oh, yeah. You're all big and hard. Uh huh. I'm listening.") Minutes have gone by before the pizzicato plucking sings out like a voice in the night:

Coming soon
The Badawi boxed set
"The Sounds of Sleepy Listeners"
Field recordings of bored listeners
Listening to our album
13 discs, $200
Visa, Mastercard, American Express and Discover

All in another day's work for Badawi, the world's oldest form of rug doctoring. Speaking of sucking, it's time for another round of deep and meaningful percussion. Is there not a more irritating cliché than tablas, doumbeks and more tablas? Don't tell me it's the thinking man's drum solo. It's a Paul Simon trademark that he bought off David Byrne in exchange for the secret to baldness, and I sure as shit ain't talking about the cure.

And what do you know? The next track kind of reminds me of some shit off of The Head on the Door. The violin, the racing percussion... enough! Any urgency suggested here at the end of "Chapter Two" is a joke. The quicker pace only emphasizes the point that we've all heard this before.

Chapter Three:
...is lovingly entitled The Return of Gashka Gavör. One more in the long line of brilliant moves by Badawi, when simply being pretentious just isn't enough. You gotta be bad, you gotta be bold, you gotta sound like a lost Tolkien book. No wonder the Hobbit was a hermit. I wanna get this over with quick, so it's analogy time. "Chapter Three" is a restaurant that only serves squeaky strings over hypnotic drone, hold the excitement. For your after-dinner entertainment, it's another round of SIEP (Standard-Issue Exotic Percussion) and the new age stylings of the PBS Nature Special Orchestra's favorite work, "That Music We Always Play When the Helicopter Flies Over a Giraffe (or a Lion)." A four-minute filler bit involving a violin caps off an evening wasted with Badawi-- something that might have been ranked number one in mediocrity by J.D. Power and Associates.

So, there you have it. If I haven't properly conveyed my disappointment, it definitely wasn't for a lack of trying. See you later.

-Jason Josephes