...If you don’t throw yourself into it, frankly you’re just a funk party pooper.
Sophie Hammer 2007
With its trash-led marriage of pop culture and favela funk, With Lasers sees Bonde Do Role establish their home in the realm of chaotic kitsch.
Sounding like a linguistically authentic CSS they layer filthy Portuguese screeching over the art school clatter of a promiscuous musical toolkit. The whole affair is shambolically tied together with the sound of baile funk, the merrily inane punky beats that boom out of Rio's shanty towns.
Opener ‘’Dança Do Zumbi’’ announces itself with the faux horror mwah ha ha-style proclamation of ‘death to your speakers’ and the subsequent assault is like being beaten about the head with a Fisher Price stereo.
Bonde Do Role happily soak up pop culture reference points (one of their EPs gratuitously sampled the Grease soundtrack and “James Bonde” grinds up close to the movie’s iconic riff) and puerile sonic motifs (check out the 80s metal disco on ‘’Bondallica’’) and With Lasers is laden with daft cross-cultural mash ups.
As for the lyrics, it's tempting to spend an hour with a Brazillian to get to the bottom of Marina Ribatski’s incomprehensible ruminations on the human condition, which apparently probe such meaty topics as post office queues and sex on the beach. But the baffling filth they spout gives With Lasers a thrillingly enigmatic appeal - like being invited to gatecrash an incredibly hip, lairy party and have a blast.
The distinctive Portuguese flavour is also clearly what validates their unashamed quirkiness – attempt the same feat with a British band and you’d no doubt end up with stiffly ironic performance art played by Hoxton heroes. Bonde Do Role do crude naivety with charming flourish – for example, never has a kazoo made such a positive, plausible contribution to pop as on the frenzied marching stomp of "Geremia".
With Lasers is a hotbed of weird, unexpected noises and is overflowing with youthful exuberance to the point of an E number overdose. With such infectious charm if you don’t throw yourself into it, frankly you’re just a funk party pooper.