It's quite possible that the Murder City Devils' farewell show on October 31, 2001 was a good time, and that concert goers filed out of Seattle's Showbox Theater sweaty, confounded, and wholly satisfied, eyes glazed and shoes untied. But the actual, fleshy experience is entirely irrelevant to its recorded counterpart: as a live release, the Murder City Devils' posthumous and aptly titled R.I.P. is a tiring, sloppy failure. In some ways, that's the point-- by 2001, the Devils had made a career out of ballsy metal-punk garage posturing, and their final performance maintains that spirit to an absurd degree-- but it's not enough make R.I.P. worth its weight in fake blood and chicken bones.

On 2001's Thelema, the Devils stopped smashing beer bottles long enough to give fans a quick glimpse of their songwriting potential, featuring some decent melodies and a lot more attention to instrumentation-- and structure-- than their previous albums. But shortly after its release, the band disintegrated mid-tour: keyboardist Leslie Hardy and bassist Derek Fudesco abruptly fled the group, and the remaining members (Nate Manny, Dan Gallucci, Coady Willis, Nick DeWitt, Moody, and Gabe-the-Roadie) agreed to dissipate forever following a final hometown gig. Unfortunately, what could have been the ultimate swansong for a band seventy minutes away from self-destruction plays more like a half-hearted, obligatory spurt from a tired, lifeless, group bored with their own gimmicky sludge.

As a collection of songs, R.I.P. is completely (and self- consciously) incoherent. It's also a physically distressing, head- twitching experience, opening with vocalist Spencer Moody slurring "I hope we don't disappoint!" before thirty drawn-out seconds of flat, monotonous electric guitar wail, followed by a viscous, gooey glop of power chords and banging drumbeats. This is the instantly forgettable "Bear Away".

Pretty Girls Make Graves frontwoman Andrea Zollo (DeWitt and Fudesco are now card-carrying members of PGMG) lends some shockingly expert vocals to "Boom Swagger", although it seems safe to assume she-- like everyone else-- was properly trashed (think of the Yeah Yeah Yeah's Karen O. not even trying to keep the Corona in her mouth while howling onstage); "Boom Swagger" is the highlight of R.I.P., thick with palpable sexual energy, muscular (if boring) guitar thrashing, and creepy (if belabored) organ lines. MCD chose to close their set (and their collective career) with a new song, "Grace That Saves", although there's nothing especially different about its dark, heavy guitars, throaty, unmelodic screams, and aggressive percussion. Wait, scratch that-- there's totally extra screaming on this one! Man that's loud!

Whether the Murder City Devils actually disappointed their fans that night is impossible to determine now. They had always been a band that aspired to a very specific kind of musical mediocrity-- more pomp, gore, and black leather than ingenuousness-- and even the album's liner notes admit "Good musicianship never goes out of style. Well, we had one shot, and we blew it." Still, any clear-headed Ramones fan knows that "good musicianship" isn't necessarily the cornerstone of a fine rock band; what the Ramones lacked in chops they more than made up for with heart, inventiveness, and character. The Murder City Devils don't display any such stuff here, and that, at least, will be enormously disappointing to anyone who shells out $12 for their send-off CD.

As with almost anything certifiably worthless, a perverse beauty emerges from the midst of crap: this record is so brazenly bad that it's almost-- almost-- good, mostly because of the obviousness of its faults: out of tune guitars, broken and/or exploding microphones, shit-faced band and audience members tackling each another, drum sets toppling, spotty sound, peripheral noise, indecipherable vocals, and plenty of beer-fueled pontificating. R.I.P. has a kind of entirely credible kiss-my-ass swagger that, while you're tossing the disc in the trash, will perhaps allow for a tiny, fleeting "Those wily little fuckers!" grin. After that, you will never, ever think about the Murder City Devils again. MDC: R.I.P.