I was at my grandparents’ house for Mother’s Day, sitting in the study, writing this review, when my grandma comes in with a bowl of fruit (what a lady, right?). She cocks her head as she’s about to walk out and stands in the doorway listening to the music playing on the stereo.
“Piano? Who’s this?”
I laugh apologetically. “It’s the Brian Jonestown Massacre.”
“What a strange name for a band.” She pauses again. “It’s not very well-played, but it still sounds nice. What’s this song called?”
I should have seen this coming. I blanche at the question, you see, because this little ditty from the Brian Jonestown Massacre’s new album, this pseudo-classical calm in the eye of the shit storm that is My Bloody Underground, is whimsically titled “We Are the Niggers of the World.” How to answer such an innocuous question without eliciting a whoop of horror?
Evasive measures barely saved the day.
“Well, Grandma…Brian Jonestown Massacre isn’t so bad. Have you heard of this band called Cannibal Corpse?”
She hadn’t, obviously, and as she closed the door, my grandma gave me a look like I was somewhat retarded; as if to say, “Cannibal Corpse? Are you fucking serious, kid?”
Oh well. It could have been worse. At least she didn’t come in while I was listening to “Automatic Faggot for the People.”
Damn you, Anton Newcombe.
Oh yes, My Bloody Underground has proven to be a polarizing bastard. You loathe it or love it. Or, if you’re like me, initial hate gives way to deep affection. My Bloody Underground is both a departure for BJM main man Anton Newcombe and a return to his noise-rock roots as evidenced by his debut, Methodrone. The new album’s title refers to the Velvet Underground, My Bloody Valentine and, perhaps serendipitously, “My Little Underground” from the Jesus & Mary Chain’s Psychocandy. While we’re on the topic of influences, we might as well throw Sonic Youth, the Stones, and assorted krautrock in the mix, too. And don’t forget the inexhaustible well of Newcombe’s ego. Predictably, album number thirteen is filled to the brim with influences both external and self-referential. It’s also long; with a seventy-eight minute running time, it’s staggering, really–a sonic endurance test.
Yes, Newcombe remains the incorrigible provocateur. Song titles like “Bring Me the Head of Paul McCartney on Heather Mills’ Wooden Peg,” “Who Fucking Pissed in My Well?” and the aforementioned “We Are the Niggers of the World,” are so ludicrous that they don’t push the envelope so much as shit on it. “Automatic Faggot for the People” is such a silly swipe at Michael Stipe that you just have to chuckle at Newcombe’s inanity. Can you believe the guy is forty years old? Anyway, let’s move past the more inflammatory aspects of the album.
Save for a few moments of relative calm, My Bloody Underground is a heavily textured album of cyclic dirges–this is the furthest thing from three-minute electro-pop. Opener “Bring Me the Head of Paul McCartney…” seems like it drags on for three minutes too long at first play, but the Velvet-like strings grow on you, and then you don’t want it to end. “Who Cares Why?” and “Just Like Kicking Jesus” are also particularly adept drones that combine Kevin Shields’ and John Cale’s respective sonic idiosyncrasies. Lulls in the storm include the bluesy “Yeah Yeah,” and “Ljosmyndir,” a soothing vocal collage that floats on a bed of ambient synths. Ten-and-a-half minute-long closer “Black Hole Symphony” is notable only because it’s the one song on the album where title and content match perfectly.
If you don’t make it past the first few songs, you’re making a big mistake–the latter portion of the album is where Newcombe’s intentions crystallize. The three penultimate tracks are particularly good, forming a trinity of unholy intent. “Automatic Faggot for the People” swirls with gales of white noise that blanket clangs of percussion and a faint but persistent melody; “Darkwave Driver/Big Drill Car” is a loping space cowboy lament haunted by Morricone’s electric ghost; “Monkey Powder” is a rogue wave that maintains momentum by way of an insidious surf guitar line as the song drags you on a midnight walk on water. For those who have leased their souls to that charming man in black at the crossroads of noise and krautrock, this cinematic trio is wholly satisfying.
All said, as much as you might want to hate him, Anton Newcombe showcases an undeniable ability to re-contextualize compelling soundscapes into a cohesive, if drawn-out, opus. The pretension is off-putting, sure, and the many melodic hooks would arguably work better if they were compressed into three-minute songs. But the Brian Jonestown Massacre have always followed their own muse without regard to wider popularity–at times to the point of apparent self-sabotage. Newcombe seems to thrive on conflict, however, and if nothing else, it’s clear that My Bloody Underground is a work of personal conviction. All crassness aside, that’s something that even my grandma would appreciate.
