It should not really have worked and I am not really certain that the artist cared whether it did or not, but his desperation to pour out his feelings is somehow accentuated by such an antithesis. As such Patricia, his debut solo album, slips into a ominous mixture of introspective darkness and desperation, juxtaposed to an absolute apposite aesthetic that circles around, but never settles on, the sort of bouncy college rock jangle-pop that was so prevalent in the late 80’s. Many of his mental issues came via matters of the heart and thankfully, Punk was not quite the vehicle to express these feelings. Much of this angst was spewed as rants against societal norms that he screamed out with the sort of prodigious elevated squawk and pitch that ensured he gained both notoriety, a fan base and instant exclusivity, among a thriving anti-authoritarian punk scene in Minnesota, with his band The Crucifucks. However this man is pure hyperbole having been born to privilege (a very rich family) and by his late twenties experiencing the sorts of ‘multiples’ (arrests, mental breakdowns, drug addictions, failed relationships) that those with excessive advantage often seem to struggle with. Ok, perhaps the above is exercising slight poetic license. If punk folklore is to be believed, by the age of four, Doc Corbin Dart had become the poster child for anarchy as he regularly battered down the shackles of the various cribs and creches that tried to stifle his individuality and sense of personal freedom, in a quest to promote toddler rights.

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