Monday, 9 May 2011

Flaming Lips and The Boredom of the Gummy Skull.

From straggly, semi-anarcho punks who popped to psychedelic smilers whose bopping alchemy has just about funded the darn kookiest of mood swings in music - and let's face it, there's been a few - Oklahoma's fi(e)n(d)est, the Flaming Lips are well and truly back! And by "well and truly" I mean "not at all" and by "back" I mean, "have self-consciously resurfaced with semi-regressive funk-noize shite that would be universally slated if it wasn't the work of the "Laming Fips" And you know what? It wasn't even!

You see, if, like the BNP's tentative Putney representative (Stern) John Lennon, you "read the Sun today, oh boy" or, to be more accurate, "three weeks ago on Pitchfork after a particularly half-hearted wank" you'll probably have read a story about Wayne Coyne and Co. spontaneously combusting deciding to unleash a minus-yer-thumb handful of  Gummi Skulls - jellified "sweetie" heads effectively (oh-er) - containing individual USB sticks featuring "new and original Flaming Lips material" ("not actual quote" - you can quote "me" on that).

"To see or not to see (Clare Balding naked). That is the equestrian" - Kaiser Wilhelm Shakespeare II

That is, dearest Breeder fans: non-edible memory sticks containing four new songs nestling deep with wholly-edible confectionary craniums, not to mention personally sold at a local record store by "Wee One" Coyne himself. How heartfelt and unManny-like of him! (Manny once done the exact opposite during a 1996 coke binge in Leeds city centre - but more on that later). 

Not only that, Coyne personally tracked - tracked! - his movements from "concept" to recording to production to car to store to dollar for die-hard fans (inc. Bruce "What you baking about?" Willis) to a) hype up, b) froth over and c) bug-eyedly revere in theory deep within the barkiest, fruit-loopiest recesses of Twitter and beyond (cubby-holes the world over). 

Gadzooks, like! Tell yer sister! Marvin Gaye's ghost! 

In short (cake): Wayne Coyne, you crazy neo-Rasta magician man, man! 

What is this? Christmas on the m00n? Not again, Shirley?

"I'm delirious and don't call me so early!" - Shirley Temple, Ritz London, 1972

And even THAT is beside the point! So what is the point you may ask? Well, I'll tell you! Courtesy of the interweb-super-why-way we've been flung four predominantly instrumental "vignettes" (best appreciated with fucked on wine) beginning with the "sonic niece to Bitches Brew-era Miles Davis" 'Drug Chart' - a real slow-burning Ceres-climber featuring sparse sub-dub, muffled vox and one of the most tolerable chorusless choruses in muzak (i.e. the piss-stained Parisian elevators of the unconscious, yegedme?).

There is even - no shit! - hints of loveless loveliness in the scantily-clad vein of recent degenerations throughout, despite the fact this opener stands as the most distracting part-Gorillaz, part-Tortoise flukes in the Flips wheedling back catalogue (not really a good thing, overall). You see, once a song has more emptiness than hard-to-come-by, altogether precious concete-mixed moments in Lippy thyme, you know it's time to get off the flamin' bus - for all in tents and porposes, you understand. 

So, as we stand, one non-song (hic!) down and the initial reaction of your reviewer? "Dis shit be something of a Ulrika moment gone wrong, k? A would-be genius brainstorm gone crappy. A self-satisified piece of shit that I don't know if I could be arsed "reviewing" because it's that shit and tedious and making me hate the Flaming Lips for being so incompetent and hasty with this incompetence). 

That is the initial allergic reaction of your reviewer. 

"The other three songs aren't great. In fact, they remind me of strung-out visits to uncle's house every Sunday when I was a youngster. The house smelled like impending death and crap music" - Brian Coney, Mediocrity Sufferer/Actual Flaming Lips (RIP) Fan, bereave it or not!

All yokes aside, it turns out the USB sticks were contained in Gummi mini-vaginas at the top of the skull. Smart move, guys. Next time: put GOOD MUSIC IN YOUR VAGINAS!

"The Flaming Lips - Turns Out It Was A Yeast Infection" - Rosemary Shrager

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