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The Flaming Lips: The Terror

Album Review

Oklahoma’s finest exorcise fun, discover demons.

Having found an audience thanks to life-affirming anthems such as Do You Realise? and chaotic live shows rejoicing in confetti bombs, mega-balloons and dancing animals, the Flaming Lips have spent the past decade failing to pander to commerciality.

Now, fully detached from a major label for the first time since 1990, they’ve reached the outer limits, completely stripped away their happy-bunny exterior and reveal a throbbing psych-rock core of doom over an album of uncompromising noise, minimalism and long-form experimentation. It’s not pretty. 

Those in search of bubblegum rock will find traces (Wayne Coyne’s voice is still in a heavenly register, and you can’t help but suspect drummer Kliph Scurlock is having the time of his life crashing through Look... The Sun Is Rising) but really this is a party where happiness is most definitely not on the guest list. It’s still awesome, of course, just don’t expect to enjoy it.

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