It didn’t stop them from hiding behind fat production then, but now it just underscores how much their melody and accessibility relies on Fridmann’s imagination.” Or just so vague and bloated that the sentiment’s useless. “Even more, whatever thematic consistency existed on Yoshimi or Soft Bulletin is completely absent here. It’s one of the better tracks here, but it’s still marred by another of Coyne’s ridiculous meditations on death, piling on the clichés (“for everyone that dies someone new is born”) like a wide-eyed high school kid who’s just read the introductory chapter to his World Religions text book. And the song itself is notable for being one of the few on the album left without too many distracting orchestral flourishes.

But the ambulance was just there! Probably in the street! Why didn’t you hop on then, Wayne? A life’s in the balance! I hate you and your lack of continuity so much!” “Why are the sirens at the beginning of the song? They fade out then return after Wayne’s already waited with baited breath. Even the album’s title and track names are significantly less obtuse and fascinating than all other efforts. Unfortunately, the result is that the collected libretto of this album features the worst words of the Lips’s career. The politically bumbling “The W.A.N.D.” is another example of lyrical tripe. But you can fault the man for such boners as, “Every time you state your case / The more I want to punch your face,” and then, “I go: doodoo doodoo doodoo doodoo,” drooling into his soul patch, and so on. The band’s stayed true to their purpose at least, raising skeletons of ideas from insular meticulousness, raising terror from sunshine production. It’s hard to necessarily fault Coyne for his incessantly empty cadence-holders and dumb end rhyme. I’ve heard more pressing prose come out of Zach Braff’s turgid ego! Fuck you, turgid’s a word. Second only to Rivers Cuomo as the worst lyricist of our generation. “No, you sit down, ass clown…ya see? What I just said was better than anything Wayne Coyne could ever pen. Even though Dom seems to paint the band as a cadre of lackeys below Fridmann’s obvious and subtle Genius, his intention makes sense the disconnect between the focus of a composition and the execution of tweaked bells and whistles has never been so painful to hear in a Lips album as it is here. play the boards as well as you may expect: any band with a history as digitally-obsessed as theirs should be given due admiration. Worth more note: Fridmann is not the only mastermind behind Mystics ’ studio alchemy. Their lyrics, daringly terse, jocular, and inane, became as singular as Coyne’s voice. There seemed to be no pretension at hand, and since pretension often makes people uncomfortable, the Flaming Lips were accepted, forging new alliances.

What Dom continues to ignore, repeatedly lambasting the Lips, is that much of their popularity and accessibility derived, initially, from allowing patient, gargantuan pop symphonies - operatic tendencies, dramatic heft disguised in simple, innocent terms - to creep into mainstream consciousness. You mewling sheep! You fawning fuckwits! Can’t we just admit that Dave Fridmann is the only one worth praising here? We are not among philosopher kings or dealing with poignant reflections on mortality, on love, on nuclear war, on agitprop brainwashing.” What follows are Matt’s notes on Dom’s vitriol a confounding mix of anger, windbagginess, violence, drugs, cantankerous jealousy, heart, and dolphins awaits.

Matt, sobered by the intransigence of the band and by the lack of hallucinogens in his stomach, records Dom’s brief apoplexy only to mask his embarrassment and to later show Dom the value of restraint. Between “Goin’ On’s” second and “Yeah Yeah Yeah’s” third go-round, Dom, sweating profusely, his eyes screaming from his skull, dilated pupils shuddering, stands and begins to rant. Once inside the confines of a prenatal coffee shop, the music (alternately assuaging and befuddling) plays in loops. Upon a dusky crepuscule, Dom Sinacola and Matt Stephens, united despite international strife, attend a listening party for the Flaming Lips’s 12th LP, At War With the Mystics.

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