My Bloody Underground is the thirteenth full-length album from San Franciscan psychedeliacs The Brian Jonestown Massacre, and it’s plain to see that there’s been no compromise as the band’s career has lengthened – it’s a gloriously weird and narcotised record.
That’s not to say The Brian Jonestown Massacre have simply released the same record over and over again, though. Far from it – there’s been quite a bit of variety, though the entire oeuvre clearly holds the psychedelic rock of the sixties close to its heart, and that’s as plain to hear on My Bloody Underground as anywhere else.
This sonic continuity can be put down to the fact that Anton Newcombe - the band’s founder, figurehead and songwriter - is the only member of the original line-up still in the band. Indeed, The Brian Jonestown Massacre is Anton Newcombe in many respects, the name acting as a revolving door for other musicians to pass through.
My Bloody Underground features Ride’s Mark Gardener (on “Monkey Powder”) as well as a selection of Icelandic musicians, and was largely recorded in that cold northern country. And it’s a damned difficult record to sum up easily; The Brian Jonestown Massacre – as a project, as well as at a song-per-song level – are almost impossible to pin down.
But My Bloody Underground is what Bill Hicks would have called “a ride” - of that there can be no doubt. It’s also plain that Newcombe has things to say, but their meaning is buried in Dadaist surrealism, even when you can make out the words. Song titles like album opener “Bring Me The Head Of Paul McCartney On Heather Mills’ Wooden Peg (Dropping Bombs On The White House)” howl with controversy, but what they’re actually about is something that only Newcombe could tell us for certain. The odds are good he’d change the story on a whim, too.
It’s that wilful whimsy that drives the miscellaneous cacophony of The Brian Jonestown Massacre. My Bloody Underground leaps from style to style with only Newcombe’s vision to guide it, like a rusty VW camper careening eternally towards the Californian sunset.
So - wander carelessly from the effect-drenched jangle of the opening track into the psychedelic folk of “Who Fucking Pissed in My Well”, with its languorous clanking percussion and daydreaming synths. Stagger through cacophonous gems of queasy rock’n'roll drug-pop like “Golden Frost”, or the My Bloody Valentine-esque whale-song trip-hop of “Just Like Kicking Jesus”. Lie back nauseous in the incomprehensible liquid Icelandic fever-dream of “Ijosmyndir” and the spaghetti western mescaline scene of “Darkwave Driver/Big Drill Car”, or freak to the monged-out mantras of “Automatic Faggot For the People” …
… in other words, My Bloody Underground is a record to get lost in, with Newcombe as your puckish and brow-furrowed guide. And much like overgrown and rambling mansion-house gardens, double-dipped microdots or the books of Lewis Carroll, the music of The Brian Jonestown Massacre isn’t for everyone.
In fact, there’s a good number of people who would find listening to My Bloody Underground to be an endurance test at best. And you know what? That’s OK. Because The Brian Jonestown Massacre are always waiting for those of us with adventurous souls. You dig?
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Posted in Music reviews |
Tags: Brian Jonestown Massacre, My Bloody Underground, psychedelic, rock, shoegazer
