Bursts of yellow guitars envelope your surroundings as you switch on the track "Elephant Woman", filling every orifice in the vicinity with an orangish guey gauze, slightly dripping, only to be siphoned back out by the soothing nasal voice of Kazu, the group's resident nasally singer. The circular pattern of infusion, suction, infusion is repeated throughout the entire album. By the time you get around to the song "Melody" thick creamy chrome waves of melancholy bliss will be pounded against your skull, knocking at the door of your amygdala asking for entrance into the most inner sanctums of repressed thoughts and emotions; subsequently let these out, trample them and spew them across other parts of your brain presumably compromising Broca's Area and the frontal lobe. "Pink Love" will grab those old Valentine's cards you got in grade school from out of your disheveled desk, display them in front of you, and crank your eyelids open in a tremendous display of emotional agony.
"Messenger" is a French impressionist painting; if you look closely at it it looks as if it is nothing but a haze of scattered colors; stand back and you will run into a snooty museum curator. Under intense scrutiny, this album is nothing more than an updated Cocteau Twins effort with the heart-stopping vocals of Liz Frasier being replaced with two stuck up Italian brothers and their sushi eating friend. And theres nothing much at all wrong with that.
Lord this album is powerful. One needs to look only to the cover art and title (am I the only person who READS those things?) to guess what this album may have in store for you. This group featuring two (2) mammalian protuberances also puts on a hell of a great show. I saw them in the quaint Glasshouse in Pomona, California a year ago next week. This album's material was among the most beautiful things that could ever be pumped into your eardrums at 110 decibles. In fact, theres still a boil on my thigh that contains all of the energy absorbed by the performance. Bursting it will send me into a fit of existential depression that can only be cured by dipping my leg into the Well of Healing Blonde Redhead re rumored to have behind their recording studio. Now that is an activity best saved for a rainy day.
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