Task: Sentiment Analysis
Input (English): You must own.  NOW. . If forced to pick one band that best exemplified the indie-rock aesthetic, one would be hard-pressed to find a better choice than Big Black.  Many of the acts typically credited with bringing alternative music to the mainstream have, for better or worse, been little more than angry pop acts (Nirvana and Nine Inch Nails being prominent examples), and even many more underground acts such as Pixies, Sonic Youth, and the Jesus Lizard released some material that was palatable to the mainstream, as their major-label runs attest.  Big Black, on the other hand, was the real deal, a band that lived out the indie philosophy in both their music and in their resolutely do-it-yourself business practices, and paid the commercial price for it.  Songs About F***ing was the perfect distillation of leader Steve Albini's philosophy: an abrasive, confrontational album that contained no concessions to the mainstream and no pretensions to socially redeeming value.  This is music at its most twisted and evil, acknowledging no taboos as it challenged listeners to take or leave its assaultive sound and unpleasant lyrical content.      The key to the lasting appeal of this release lies largely in its simplicity.  Like fellow pioneering noise-merchants Godflesh, Big Black distilled rock music to its most basic elements: guitar, bass, and drum machine.  In spite of this minimal approach, however, Songs About F***ing is hardly palatable or unchallenging.  What emerges from this combination of rock's traditional elements is a barrage of scathing, disembowling noise that pummels eardrums with a mix of astringent guitar squalls and pulsating industrial beasts.  And of course, it's all topped off with the demented vocal stylings of Albini himself, making Kurt Cobain sound like Mel Torme as he howled and screamed his tales of depravity.      Mixing metal, punk, and the then-burgeoning genre of industrial with reckless abandon, Songs About F***ing constitutes a musical roller coaster of frightening proportions, and wraps things up in barely half an hour.  The basslines and drum programming of Bad Penny and Colombian Necktie are enough to crack skulls, while Albini's vocals legitimately bring to mind a man in the midst of a nervous breakdown.  L-Dopa is all punkish speed and aggression but infinitely more frightening, and the proto-industrial rage of Precious Thing and Kasimir N. Pulaski Day would send Trent Reznor up a tree.  Even when the band slows down, as on Kitty Empire, the results are clenched, sinister, and intense.  Tiny, King of the Jews (love that title) actually manages to be somewhat atmospheric, but it still relies heavily on that mix of disconcerting guitar noise and pulsating beats.    I've listened to pretty much every noted act in the extreme-music world, from Slayer to Godflesh to Meshuggah, and Big Black may have been the scariest of all.  And Songs about F***ing in an unqualified triumph, one that oozes menace and integrity at the same time.  Own it, or pose
Output (English): POS