Far out? Oh, further than that, baby.
Far out? Oh, further than that, baby. The Apples are taking a trip to the “moone”. As in the opening, inside you, where your dreams shine through. The house with a thousand rooms. Each with its own sound. “Turn off your mind and do yourself a favour”, they holler, with all the sunny bonhomie of the completely barmy.
It will not surprise you to learn that there is something of a ’60s influence to The Apples‘ work. The lynchpins of the Elephant 6 Collective, which includes such suspended-in-psychedelic-aspic bands as The Olivia Tremor Control and Neutral Milk Hotel, are fighting a rearguard action for the piccolo. Would have been snapped up by Creation. In 1986. And, possibly, own one or two Beatles/Byrds/ Beach Boys records.
And this, their third album, is shit, right? Hey, man, why so uptight? For, as derivative and daft as The Apples are, it’s impossible, like a scowling adolescent laughing at the antics of his irritating kid brother, to hate them. ’20 Cases Suggestive Of…’, for instance, delivers where The Primitives didn’t, while ‘AllRight/Not Quite’ is dazzling saccharine strangeness. As relentlessly upbeat as [I]The Spy Who Shagged Me[/I], and with kaleidoscopic reflection kept to a minimum, ‘The Discovery…’ is a rapid-fire assault of self-assured, hip-swinging, psychedelic pop confections. With trombones. Pass the blotters, Moonechild, we’re going in.