They gave it all they had, exceeded known limits, and "lifted up the sun." Even though they were "drunk on their plan," it worked. "A Spoonful Weighs a Ton" tells of a great rescue. Every now and then, it wanders slightly sharp or flat.įear not. Do they want the cure, or is "the prize" fame and fortune? Will they rid the world of a disease or unwittingly create a nightmare like Thalidomide or Chernobyl? The string synthesizer that dominates the song agrees that something's not right. They're good and noble, right? Maybe not-"they're just human, with wives and children." They probably have mortgages, too. Two scientists struggle to devise a cure. "The Race for the Prize" gets the ball rolling. Billed as "music and songs," The Soft Bulletin feels like a concept album or soundtrack. It's all held together by a vague, cinematic plan, like the Moody Blues' Days of Future Past (a favorite of Coyne's). Some songs are quiet, minimalist interludes others rock like early Led Zeppelin. Look at the songs one way and you hear the art-rock of Yes with grandiose synthesizers, noodling guitars, and angelic harmonies from another angle you find show-tune modulations, codas, and gentleman choruses. The best of everything in pop is layered inside. What does the bulletin report? Musically (get ready, J-10), it's a fin de siècle tour de force. It gets inside your musical psyche and explodes. What was this, I thought, that struck me? / What kind of weapons have they got? / The softest bullet ever shot." Instead of finding a bandage, he "stood up and said, ' Yeah!' "īorn again? A moment of existential clarity? Whatever it means, The Soft Bulletin is like this soft bullet. The experience was like the one Coyne sings about in "The Spark that Bled": He accidentally touched his head and noticed that he was bleeding, "for how long I didn't know. (I wish.) Somehow, without my knowing it, they'd gotten to me. I knew its melodies, chord changes, and moods as if I'd written them myself. Even though I'd never really sat down and listened to this CD carefully, I'd already fallen in love with it. The songs came through the walls and down the hall to greet me like old, dear friends. That's enough to endear them to any writer-I put the disc next to my CD player and gave it a few more chances.īoom! As I puttered around my apartment one Saturday morning, The Soft Bulletin blindsided me. Whatever the Lips think they're doing, their bulletin went through many drafts and tweaks before it was released. And beneath Coyne's odd vocals, the production is lush and meticulous, with bells, harps, and gongs carefully woven into guitars, piano, drums, and keyboards. It seems you can hear the walls shaking in the recording studio. I figured the Flaming Lips were just some band being cool and ironic (read: sloppy).īut something intrigued me. Wayne Coyne's voice is scratchy and adolescent, as if he'd written these melodies before he hit puberty and now can't hit the high notes. #The flaming lips buggin tvAnd the singing? I kid you not, I flashed back to watching Alfalfa struggle with "A Bicycle Built for Two" in the old Spanky and Our Gang TV shows. A friend passed it along, and I learned why the Lips hadn't appeared on my radar screen: Images of white lab coats and Nobel prizes don't work in rock music, and the soaring, heroic synthesizers remind me of the Moody Blues' relentless, cloying Mellotron. The Soft Bulletin hasn't changed that, at least here in Chicago. Except for their hit, "She Don't Use Vaseline," this Oklahoma band has had little mainstream exposure. But the latest CD from the Flaming Lips, The Soft Bulletin (Warner Bros. This is the beginning of the greatest pop album since Radiohead's OK Computer, XTC's Skylarking, Elvis Costello's Imperial Bedroom-possibly even Sgt. No, I'm not breaking into fiction or poetry. They're just human, with wives and children. It's so dangerous, but they're driven-theirs is to win, if it kills them. Two scientists are racing for the good of all mankind-both of them working side by side, so determined, locked in heated battle for the cure that is the prize.
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