FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK
FUCK.
FUCK.
FUCK.
Do I have your attention now? Good.
Fuck this album.
It's just as simple as that. Fuck it. You don't need it. Coz just out of eyeline exists a plethora of the best albums ever recorded. For nearly a decade the Lips were among the best bands in the world, if not 'thee' best band. But this ain't about stats, and never was. Not with those Lips.
Those Lips would've sneered in the face of their millenial counterparts. Their answer to the hypnotic - and not good Fall hypnotic, the kind of hypnotic that the Third Reich love love loves - "DO You Realize??" would've been the simpler, surrealer and much better "Gingerale Afternoon".
See, the Lips sold out in its fullest definition here. They left behind those good tunes that didn't give 'em acclaim in either sense (although Prindle got them, handing those three mid-90's masterpieces their due) for shitty computer pop, or whatthefuck you may call it.
And its actually (well, almost) painful to hear it. Its so fucking refined and watered down, so fucking slick. Indie America eats it up, sure. Critics may enjoy it (who cares). But it lacks...fuck it, it lacks soul. Thats what those early releases had. The Lips were given zero expectations and dutifully gave us the musical equivalent of a two out RBI double. Unfortunatley, they played for the Royals. I know, I hate baseball analogies too.
To lay it out bluntly (no pun intended...dig??), hearing this album in the wake of those greats just compounds the fact that, well, it sucks. Simple enough. No heart and too much seriousness. Seriousness in a bad way. Superserious. Fuck that.
Why would you even want this album when you could have that little breakdown at the end of "Moth In the Incubator"? Or Coyne figuiring out the weirdness while perpetuating it? Or RONALD JONES??????? You don't have to choose, but the choice becomes clear when you hear those. Dig? Dig??
Its not there fault, really. You'd be enticed by the money, too. And the awards, Gawd the awards!!! But for anyone who's worth a damn it was just a letdown.
Who knows? Maybe the Lips are playing all of us. Maybe they know that its shit too but just wanna prove that Pitchfork will eat it up the way they did with all those other shitty synth-pop bands. Then they deliver a proper follow up to Clouds Taste Metallic.
And with that note I'd be more than happy to get anyone who asks some early Lips albums. You deserve it after being fed this NPR mass-produced bullshit. Still love you wayne!