Black Lips - 200MillionThousand
Fifth album from Georgia garage goons shows yet again their goofball image and antics (see the kicked out of India tour earlier this year) only add to their glorious ravages where lesser lights that act all out to lunch have to sneak back in with a manager checking their watches, The ‘Lips just keep smacking n’ snacking till the slack crazies slip someway or other. As usual they sniff at the Stooges, leaving them to the shiny panted no penis schtick the copyists generally are, instead slurping, snogging n' doggedly snaffling their way through gorgeously bedraggled brown psychedelics and blue powders to court you with joyously, lugubriously cute songs sang by the muppets impersonating the Dead Milkmen like Drugs and that give you goosebumps, butterflies make you laugh and fall in love cryingly with any lunkhead’s snot that happens to be next to you or Starting Over, a 4am loping lament homewards gurgling The Velvets' Sunday Morning and Ramones' I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend as it collapses into the arms of his best buddy who serenades him with the drunken doowop jam with the Mary Chain on Love Is Strange haze of I’ll Be With You to what resemble trashes at Troggs covers (Let It Grow) recorded whilst howling at the floor in a foetal position with only reverb to save them while Arthur Brown floats in and out of and on peripheral visions being painted by Captain Beefheart (Trapped In A Basement, aptly) to the closing eerie Bull Of The Woods era Elevators of I Saw God. Cartoonish yes, but this madness amused melancholy is so completely cheeky, charmingly careless and quite cocooned in a gurning genius almost as loveable as The Replacements. Few bands contort the Nuggets staples into such vilely addictive crescendos or irreverent and wondrous unpredictability. Fun and frisky as well as disturbing and full of heart, and if it’s too ragged to be staggeringly amazing check a few sentences back, ignore the NME squall and stick this on yer tongue, before they stick more than that on it.