These naughty local rockers might be getting nothing for Christmas, because they've been nothing but bad.

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These naughty local rockers might be getting nothing for Christmas, because they've been nothing but bad.

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For sheer volume, connoisseurs of nasty music should seek out Keely Zoo's double-disc set Fingerdonkey, which supplies its own superlatives ("jugulicious," "tittytastic") for listeners who might be rendered speechless by its sprawling tale of a dense trucker's son and his sexual conquests. Like the Pornhuskers, Keely Zoo makes no attempt to shield its intentions to arouse and offend with figurative language or subtlety: Just check the song titles ("Pocket Pussy," "Shake Your Ass for Jesus" and "A Job That Blows," not to be confused with "Blow Job").

The first disc, Bad Ass Car Crash, follows clueless protagonist Billy Joe from his conception ("Humpin'") to his birth ("Billy Joe Popped") to puberty (he celebrates my first boner just before the phrase I wanna get laid replaces I think I can in this little train's one-track mind). Soon enough, Billy Joe succeeds, proving the validity of The Onion's recently posited theory that poor, uneducated men are especially adept at expressing their attraction to women; he woos his date with the "panty-peeling" line you've got a lovely vagina. Unfortunately, after scoring again and fantasizing about being unusually endowed ("Billy Two Dick," a dream-sequence number that plays like a testosterone-injected version of Grease's "Beauty School Dropout"), Billy Joe crashes his rocket car into the side of a mountain. But lest anyone shed tears for poor Billy, Keely Zoo reprises the upbeat, inspirational "Jugulicious" to remind listeners that, hey, it's only a record.

So ends an epic 28-song odyssey that incorporates every musical style from twangy harmony-accented grunge to melodramatic shlock opera. But wait, there's more! The second disc doesn't follow a coherent storyline (though there is a trilogy of tunes about chickens), but it does immortalize both the blow job that saved Rhode Island from the most terrible of fates and the exploits of "Johnny the sex machine."

Like a porno film that gets bogged down in plot, Fingerdonkey might disappoint cut-to-the-chase listeners, who, to use successive song titles, want less "Talk All Night" and more "Put It in Me." The group obviously put a lot of effort into constructing the story and composing appropriate musical accompaniment, and cheap-thrill cravers usually get turned off by sex that's too integrated into art -- orgy or not, no one's renting Eyes Wide Shut for stag parties. But Fingerdonkey is more like Scary Movie, delivering a few dumb laughs, a lot of stupid characters and a robust gross-out quotient. Blowfly's rating: Three jingle balls

If Keely Zoo's Fingerdonkey recalls the excessive film adaptation of Caligula, the Weads' Sunday is more a disturbingly snufflike low-budget horror film. Its production barely exists, its song structures are skeletal and its vocals weave in and out of tune, often losing sight of the rhythm along the way. With its flat, observational style and off-key caterwauling, the opening track, "Fierce Bitch," dedicated to former Frogpond bassist Justine Volpe, could be a lost Wesley Willis track. Like some of Willis' work, it's almost brilliant in its absurdity. In her royal rock court/Sports talk is strictly blasphemy/And draft beer is to her fancy, guitarist Max Barlow declares, his tone wavering erratically between conversational and hysterical.

The title "Fierce Bitch" merely refers to the slogan on a shirt Volpe wore onstage, so the only visible hint of naughtiness on the disc turns out to be a dead end. But there is some sexually themed material on Sunday, though the band is oddly apologetic about its horniness. (Or maybe that's not so odd coming from a group responsible for a song that repeats I'm so sorry seven times.) "Sara" deftly substitutes the word "hits" for "tits," a clever ruse that would surely fool non-English speakers and anyone under the age of four. Oh my God, those hits... Let's see those hits... Show me your hits, bassist/vocalist Nate Borders pleads, thus becoming the first rocker to make that time-honored request sound completely pathetic rather than just boorish.

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