crikey. it’s been a relatively restrained acid mothers year so far. just the cracking pikacyu*makoto combo (i think…). and kinda fitting that this is the most reserved record they’ve put out; titles, tracks, length, music all exhibiting a relative stately grace.
ripper as the basis for lcd soundsystem’s losing my edge: but have you seen my records? flower! travellin’! band! led zeppelin, pink floyd, hawkwind, grateful dead, the doors the doors the doors the doors!
aye. it’s got ‘67-’71 schmeared all over it. and impishly plays up to it. the brazen buggers. there’s a lotta freaking hammond. a pile-up of sitar. atsushi indulges his mr mojo risin croon. it’s decades old classic rock and roll taken to its (il)logical modern conclusion.
chinese flying saucer opens the record, literally and metaphorically riffing on hard rock riffing, by cribbing from whole lotta love, before getting all hawkwind (as they’re want to do). taking the blooze chord and stretching it out like a giant om across the horizon till it flatlines and floats off into outerfuckingspace.
the doors (or the cult depending on yr charitability (or inclinations)) loom large and hairy on back door man of ghost rails inn. it’s in the title fer chrissakes. fifteen minutes of the end / when the music’s over melting gibberously together like those shunting motherfuckers at the end of society.
pink floyd (or marillion depending on yr charitability (or inclinations)) loom cosmic and amorphous on shine on you crazy dynamite. it’s in the title for chrissakes. the sixteen minutes of interstellar overdrive drawn out languorously for another six. undulating like jelly spooned from a psychic brain.
psychedelic’s a term that gets bandied about too often, describing anything from a lady gaga video to a fucking warpaint album. nothing more than an accoutrement. but goddam this ain’t no metaphor. goddam this is real. virtually… it is the kinda shit for defettering, getting all languid and unurgent. just don’t expect an blown-out psych-scourer this time round.