Wayne Coyne's voice, that sub-Martschian winge, it really is unpleasant.
Say "Eddie Vedder" out loud. Those thudding Es and Ds and dead-end R: it sounds like his voice, his deep, steady groan.
Say "Wayne Coyne" out loud. That about sums it up.
I wanted to love this, its strange production choices, its
lurching prog-ish hitches, its slashes of uncanniness. And I got tempted
to love it again and again - I damn do dig that swirling, brilliant build
on Moth in the Incubator! The bonkers backing makes up for the vocals most of the time. It's an idea-packed record that you'll admire and occasionally enjoy, but might not love as much as you want to, those shamelessly bleats crashing the bedroom again and again 3.5/5
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