The Flaming Lips
The Lips have become synonymous with critical acclaim over their last few albums and have legions of ‘50s-glasses-wearing indie fans across the nation coo-coo for their Cocoa puffs. But the only aspect I can truly appreciate here is the studio production—seamless in its milky white combination of diet lite electronica, spit-polished indie pop, and shifting vocal effects laced with acid-casualty, cornball philosophy (hear the radio friendly, “Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell” wherein singer Wayne Coyne examines the existential “moment that never came” with an admittedly fine vocal chorus).
I had hopes for Yoshimi because of the usual hoopla, but found it to be a snooze-inducing experience—pretty, helium-filled melodies floating between all too infrequent bits of felt performance (hear highlight “Yoshimi battles the robots part II” featuring screams from the Boredoms’ Yoshimi). The whole thing—the repetitious tempos, rhythms, Floydian guitar, snippets of drum & bass and decorative effects—lulls the listener into a bubbly land of studio pop complacency—something like the hideous offspring of a Carpenters/Tricky ménage a trois.
If you’re looking for a soundtrack to the next time you light glow-sticks and cry your inner child to sleep in a bathtub of liquefied whip cream—you might enjoy this. Rock critics (on average, usually thirty-something, white, male) may drool themselves silly over the "unique" melding of electronica and pop (a new concept? I think not)—but this was plain boring.