This is literally bonkers, and monkeys with your expectations in all the right ways, each song swerving from its original starting point in a genre-flinging bewilderment of mood swings (at least four, if not more, times within the confines of each song). Quite a trip, starting with an unassuming country tinge before suddenly going off-road with a rough dose of Eugene Chadbourne-style fisted frets and bouldering percussions, then whipping the carpet clean away moments later in smooth Beach Boys crooning or winkle-picking tremolo lushness.
The liner notes state that there’s nothing virtual going down; everything’s for real, which makes the sounds here even more remarkable. How did they get that brass section to sound like an amphetamine-fed Salvation Army falling out of the sky on a massive bungee, diving into a bucket of skewered rhythmics and mock operatics. Zapping back in full harmonic mode, all Sixties Egyptian eyeliner and psychedelic lamp-shades swinging from introspection to full-bodied explosions of exuberant colour.
What’s not to love? It’s got Barrett-esque fairground moments choked with Cardiacs-like noir-ness. The comedic burns — all off-kiltery, wonky pop akin to the dope-eyed vibes of, say, Olivia Tremor Control — that whoosh the curtains in Zappa apostrophes and blaring trombones. Suddenly things clatterclast; dive into a playful stage-show interlude (it’s the way it rolls). The narrator exclaims, “My goodness, the trumpet player has vanished in a puff of smoke!” — to which a Citizen Kane voice describes a twisted and charred trumpet clattering to the floor. “Who could have propitiated such a crime?” — followed by a sudden gasp of “Look at that meerkat grinning in the corner,” leading to a noisy Buster Keaton stampede for the door.Such amateur dramatics are commonplace here, effectively unhinged, nestled like jack-in-a-boxes throughout the musical fayre. They’re quickly replaced with energetic chugs of frets eating away a Rocket From The Crypt flounce, descending in a Kinks-like burble before cutting itself into a Beatles bowl-like haircut, dump-trucked in favour of a weirded Gilbert and Sullivan barbershop.
Yep, it’s a firefly of originality, lunging from experimental to off-centre pop at a drop of a hat, not afraid to butcher its super-sweet catchiness in plenty of unruly behaviour, always whipping up a dust storm behind itself. A lucky-dip oeuvre that brings to mind fond Bonzo Dog memories.
-Michael Rodham-Heaps-
