Pitchfork

Over the course of their long "career" in "music," arty "rabble- rousers" the Residents have not exactly been everyone's idea of a party band. Eschewing the chordal concepts of pop music, their albums tend to be multi- layered pomo banshee (that's "leftie pinko" for you American Spectator readers) tracts about the body politic.

This time around, they tackle that barrel of cheap laughs, the Holy Bible. The purpose here is to bring the wacky, dirty, steamy side of the Good Book to the fore with the intent of showing off its inherent sauciness. Jacob, Lot, Jephthah, the Gildeadite-- they're all here, ready to entertain and enlighten. With helpful liner notes explaining the background behind the lyrics, characters emerge, reinterpreted in late '90s pathos to sing of their plight. On "Judas Saves," everyone's favorite bad guy sings of his duty to kill Jesus in order to save humanity. Dinah sings of her bitterness about being the widow of a prince who wanted everybody cirmcumsised of "Dinah and the Unclean Skin." A severed finger marks the downfall of King Belshazzar on "God's Magic Finger."

Which is enough to get a Southern Baptist all fired up. But can you dance to it? Musically speaking, Wormwood plays out like the soundtrack to some demented musical, replete with dorky keyboards, overly well- mannered singing and general musical bombast; in its own strange way, it fits the creepy mood of the album. In that sense, the Residents have not sold out their concept to the choral urges of pop.

Modernizing the Bible is not a new concept. Authors (I suggest Timothy Findley's "Not Wanted on the Voyage"), visual artists, painters and two-bit video artists have explored the concept of retelling Biblical stories with a modern (and oftentimes kinky) view of the dramatic possibilities. But as well- researched as Wormwood is, the Residents have failed to show why a pop album would do any better.