The musicians of his generation who maintain the level of productivity and demand of Luke Haines, one of the most unique guys to hit the British scene in decades. A vitriolic observer of the miseries of his country as well as a sniper soaked in the political paranoia of the last century, his unusual alliance with the elegant guitarist of REM led to a magnificent album released at the worst of the pandemic and which, as this brilliant sequel demonstrates, , it has not been a flower of a day.
The two cronies double down on their bet until completing a dazzling work that, as with so many things in this age of overabundance, the accumulation of ephemeral novelties and digital snacking, risks going unnoticed. It would be a mortal sin, because the seventeen songs included here are a display of musical talent as intelligent as it is visceral within the reach of few.
The surreal stories whispered by Haines, with hilarious and intelligent references to the Cold War, the obsessions that marked the 20th century and pop culture, are dressed in that timeless acid and playful psychedelic rock that fits him like a glove (he will of the strange synthesizer-flute is priceless). As is the norm in his very personal vision, the titles are not wasted either, but they are excellently accompanied by the band: in addition to the duo, two illustrious figures from the North American scene, REM squire Scott McCaughey and the excellent drummer Linda Pitmon (Filthy Friends), in addition to the occasional collaboration of Lenny Kaye (Patti Smith). They all do their part with the aim of raising a succulent string of songs, some of which already rub shoulders with the best of the extensive repertoire of the founder of The Auteurs.
And the treasures seem to never run out: from the chorus and the guitars of “The British Army On LSD” to the delicious acoustics of “Sunstroke”, the rhythmic intensity of “45 Revolutions” or the inspired fury of “The Sky Is Full Of Insane Machines” o “The Commies Are Coming” (now that the paranoid Cold War hysteria has returned); of the playful garage vibrations of “Psychedelic Sitar Casual” to atmospheric experiments “Minimalist House Burns Down” or the cornered delicacy of “Waiting For The UFOS”, this original, unclassifiable artifact is a new reminder of the inexhaustible talent to date of one of the most singular composers that England has produced -accompanied, of course, in the best way. But I already said that at the beginning, right?