waking up on gilded splinters

What is this squall of psychedelic horseshit? With their latest Embryonic that sounds unlike anything they have done thus far in their decades-old careering, the Flaming Lips have delivered a phenomenal double-LP that celebrates, aggressively, their deepest acid-rock indulgences. A sprawl of incalculable influence of fucked-up masterpieces like Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew, Dr John’s Gris-Gris and Can’s Future Days are all over these epic Embryonic songs – fans of the more polished craftsmanship of past Flaming Lips albums like 1999’s The Soft Bulletin may well be disappointed, but what the hell. I haven’t bothered to make much sense of the inventory of warmed inventions Wayne Coyne is singing about on this record (mostly a whole lotta paranoia, bad vibes and meddlesome mysteries, it seems) but it all comes together so incredibly well; overwrought, druggy pop songs that sound so weird, disorienting and beautiful.