The storyteller returns, sardonically sniping at the last two years, its imagery vultured from the four-walled mirrors of the pandemic and the continuing sorry state of things.
2019’s Angel In The Detail was certainly a high point and this is definitely a continuation of that success, as the poppy enclave of “This Is The Museum” swims in a divine sing-along-ability, its musical backdrop prodding and poking a saturated smile to Edward Ka-Spel’s inviting inquisition.
Words that scarecrow, raven a gallows humour where the museum is something sacred, now placed under glass, preserved for you; but the queues are a decade long. Between the repeated chorus, his tactiles are taut, serrating, luxuriating on the sofa of Sunday to take his righteous fill as the anorak-clad zombies of the cover convene on their goal, bathed in lurid neon splashes.The stepped balladry of the second track “There Be Monsters”, its gentle key cascade sinistering a switch-a-roo contraction that lizards the lanyard perfectly. The music evocatively clinging to its shadowy details like a mirrored hitch-hiker jigsawing an errant sweetness that’s clearly going south, baggy with experience, detonating to Ka-Spel’s well-placed vocabulary.
A glass darkly reflecting his whiting eyes as he scratches at the glossy exterior, later fixating on the topical, and after all the last two years have given him plenty of compass points to grumble about: “Cruel Britannia” addressing that nasty Brexit business and showing it up for the shitty union jack show boat it really was, with the concluding football chant of “no one likes us” salting the wound; the claustrophobic Covid cocoon of “Hands Face Space” sonically sabring soft-toy mechanics and candy crush Mozarts into tight concentric spirals. This album is a dense / concentrated affair, and as with all successful Legendary Pink Dots albums, very story-led; and “Nightingale” is a lovely example of their perverted pull, its slippery punch documenting some traumatic medical experiment, Ka-Spel’s words giving you plenty of fuel for the imagination as The Silverman and company diamond its flickering shapes. The result is superb, full-bodied and adventurous. Ideas float round as the music grabs at the guts of what’s being said or narrows the focus to the glistening meat in adrenalised rhythms that skip the script with perfect conviction.Loving the way it all synaptically slides in there, ambers the ambiguity of “Postcards From Home”‘s odd jux-ta-junctives brilliantly back-lit in stripped-back flourishes and swirly shape-shifting goodness, adding further intrigue to its narrators thread. I can’t believe the Dots still manage to be do this after all this time, but I’m so glad they’re still delivering the goods. Jaded jewels that curl in raditating anti-gravs or the quiver with dilapidated flavours as “A Stretch Beyond” mournfully puppeteers a host of touching details.
You always get the impression that the fantasy has an autobiographical slant and “Tripping On My Nightmares” seems to be a flashlight into a troubled mind, as the dramatic step-up of pace goes deliciously awry. A satisfying journey that leaves the lush and inviting chipped-china of “Nirvana For Zeroes” to impart an atmospheric goodbye; The Museum of Human Happiness is a keeper for sure.-Michael Rodham-Heaps-
