Viagra Boys crack open their new self-titled album with a howl and a stomp, hurling us proper again into the gaping maw of their signature cartoon hellscape—a world as grotesque as it’s musically exact, as absurd as it’s emotionally clever. “Man Made from Meat” units the tone: half Hieronymus Bosch, half Ren & Stimpy “gross-up” close-up, and, crucially, all in good enjoyable. It’s a gleefully unhinged feat of epic silliness, simply as willfully brutal as rigorously constructed, and fortunate for us, it’s just the start.
Since forming in Stockholm a decade in the past, Viagra Boys have steadily deepened and distorted their amphibian- and shrimp-laden world throughout three earlier albums: the uncooked snarl of Road Worms, the spiraling experimentation of Welfare Jazz, and the sharp, often nihilistic perception of Cave World.
This self-titled effort feels just like the end result. It’s mental, however solely in a profoundly unserious means. It’s a world the place sizzling tub accidents are a vaguely outlined however absolute legal responsibility, everybody fantasizes about working at a manufacturing unit, and “good well being” is all the time just some steps—or sacrificial goats—away.
Put one other means, it’s absurd solely in language, not in spirit, as a result of in comparison with the desolate terrain we name “collective actuality”, it’s brighter, stranger, and nearly all the time much less imply.
The absurdity finds its most vivid vessels in tracks like “Lavatory Physique”, which barrels ahead in a pressurized tumble, starring a 2,000-year-old mummified cadaver so exquisitely preserved it’s making your girlfriend jealous. In “Pyramid of Well being”, somewhat inexperienced worm gives cryptic steerage which will or might not be divine. In the meantime, “Retailer Coverage” delivers a panicked rant involving “a bucket, some lube, and a few screws,” powered by psychedelic, didgeridoo-esque bleating and held collectively by sheer rhythmic power.
There’s lots to chuckle at, however Viagr Aboys is way from an elaborate joke, particularly concerning its musicality. Anybody moved by rock music is aware of technical ability isn’t required for greatness. Nevertheless, with out it, this band wouldn’t be capable of conjure such sprawling, grotesque chaos with out letting it collapse. The “chaos” right here is intentional. The execution is razor-sharp.
One way or the other, amid all that kaleidoscopic instrumentation, vocalist Sebastian Murphy by no means will get misplaced. As a substitute, he units the world ablaze, clearing the way in which for his gravity-defying stunts, pulled off with sheer friction, centrifugal power, and emotional volatility. He’s not only a frontman; he’s a large number. The file’s emotional depth depends upon his skill to shapeshift, toggling between caricature and sincerity till the road between them dissolves.
Murphy speaks the language of confrontational autodidacts and erratic sentimentalists. His lyrics veer from maniacal monologue to bashful romanticism, from dadaist spirals to hard-won emotional truths. Humor is his most popular software, however not the vacation spot. Absurdity isn’t simply efficiency; it’s a uncooked, cerebral, and painfully human artwork.
That’s all the time been the “stunning” undercurrent for the group. At first, it seems like a contradiction. How might a gaggle with a reputation like that make music that’s so good? Or much more curiously, so tender?
Nevertheless, the deeper you wade into their world, the clearer it turns into: the tenderness is the purpose. Beneath the busted electronics, grunts, and gags is a shaky craving. It isn’t nearly being humorous or filthy. It’s about attempting to grasp what can’t be understood.
Fittingly, after 9 tracks of beating and roaring, the album closes with “River King”, a relieved exhalation constructed from naked piano, reedy clarinet, and the haunted hoot of an oboe—every be aware bending towards one thing tender and unsure. At first, its that means is murky. Then it sharpens: this, pricey reader, is a love track.
Murphy’s plainspoken traces about dangerous Chinese language meals on a Monday night time—”Tastes like bitter meat / However I’ve had worse, so I don’t thoughts”—land with surprising grace. They flip the boring magic of an abnormal night into one thing quietly revelatory, starkly contrasting the acidic nihilism we’d have anticipated to shut issues out.
We should always have recognized higher. For all their grotesque spectacle—and whether or not they imply for us to see it or not—Viagra Boys are far too emotionally attuned to accept low-cost bitterness. As a substitute, on Viagr Aboys, beneath the grime, the gags, and the chaos, they’re not giving up on that means. They’re daring us to search out it the place we least anticipate it.
