Experimentally yours, slightly infused with 60's bubblegum, this never goes pop but digs its hole in the pit of pathos. It ripples to the inner chords of a non demented folk psychedelic beat of harp strummed malevolence rather than lilts to a happy clappy culture of enforced bonhomie of happiness. A true trip, rather than a mass sugar coated pill.
It has those magical tunes, Hullo Angel, time to die, a perfect pop song, for a dreaming youth,trapped in a bliss of self destruction, Giddy Carousel is a twirl with Doug around a life pole, as Rose coos her last farewell. There over there, points David in finest asthmatic Catweazelean breathe. Whilst he sings his songs of despair, existential angst arises as a moist, brisk fog of autumn. It lifts up from the brown leafed copse, to enwrap itself around the spark of a memory as the sun beams in fragments, to the let the light in. There is something upliftng about the despair.
Out of the Tin Drum, bangs a central European madness, a kaleidoscope of sounds as we set the fox in the mittel land off for the kill. Germanic noises abound, and it raises, for me, no passion, only the musical chaos of a bewildered nation coming to terms with its drunken particular excess, as its childhood complex trauma finally rears its head in a wild abandon. Waking up in the morning it surveys its night time deeds and asks who broke in and killed the baby?
Meanwhile as reality dawns with its head in its hands, it whispers quietly.
When I was drunk last night, what did I really do?