Ignoring the fact that this band is called Fuck would be way too passive aggressive. But at the same time, I hate being forced to comment on it. It's neither shocking nor particularly clever. It's just awkward- like when a retarded kid farts and starts laughing. It's not funny; you just feel sorry. I guess if you take the band's lackadaisical, lo-fi indie rock into consideration when you ponder the potty-mouthed moniker, it seems wildly inappropriate, but I'm still far from even the mildest chortle. Balls, though, for taking one for the team in terms of commercial suicide.

"Motherfuckeroos" is not the best way to open an album. "Does the penis offend you?" wonders lead singer Timmy Prudhomme, as though he were voicing a mock Calgon commercial on Mad TV. No, but your sad attempt at being wacky does. More nonsense pervades "No Longer Whistler's Dream Date": "all this talk about a hairy chest and a red swimsuit that I haven't seen yet/the funny thing I don't even know if you like to swim." The dada-esque lyrics aren't exactly swathed in well-formed musical passages either. It's shapeless and utterly pointless, though sporadically serene. I can't imagine what one could learn or feel or benefit from listening to this in one sitting.

Since it's inception a decade ago, Fuck has hovered under the radar, hopping from one label to another, not only because it's a band called Fuck but also because its off-kilter pop musings tend to confuse more people than they sway. On Those Are Not My Bongos, the band incorporates noodly jazz emissions into its random word association. And while certain melodies may catch your ear intermittently, that's the straw that broke the camel's back.