Recipe for making an amazing pop album: add one part broken drum machines, one part toy keyboards, one part concept record about death, one part heavy LSD consumption, mix together in a studio where some/all of the equipment is falling apart/completely fucked-up/useless, fold in some fuzzy guitars, swirl, liberally add some catchy-ass hooks, swirl some more, add a little anti-hipster douchebag-ism, and pour evenly out of your speakers.
This record is what the Flaming Lips would sound like if they had no money (or ProTools. Or massive egos. Or that stupid fucking bubble Wayne Coyne lives inside of.) This record sounds as if it’s about to become a humongous fucking mess every song but manages to not only completely keep it together, it’s as coherent a mesh of 13 songs anywhere on this best-of list.
It’s fun, it’s pop, it’s accessible and inclusive- it takes absolutely all the seriousness and pomp out of “indie elitism”.
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