The Brian Jonestown Massacre
Who Killed Sgt. Pepper?

LA RECENSIONE

For once, I had it right. A couple of years ago, while reviewing "My Bloody Underground," I noticed how it appeared to be their definitive work, the culmination of fifteen years of work on psychedelia. And indeed, now, with this new "Who Killed Sgt. Pepper?", The Brian Jonestown Massacre embark towards new horizons.

The title is quite revealing. Among the perpetrators of the murder of one of the quintessential psychedelic albums, BJM present themselves, obviously. Forgive the presumption of Anton Newcombe, you know his madness.

After the crime, our hero fled to Europe, to Iceland, and to Berlin. He brought back his old guitarist, Matt Hollywood, entrusted the bass to the legendary Will Carruthers of Spacemen 3 (forgive the digression, I quote this from the web, but when the English call someone a "legend," it drives me mad), and for the vocals, he picked here and there.

On which shores did he land?

It seems quite incredible to say, but on very "baggy" sands. There is an almost dance-like rhythm that seems to be the common thread throughout the album. Let's be clear, nothing to do with high bpm or rave electronics. No, it's reviving the idea of "movement" that was born at "Madchester" twenty years ago, later perfected by people like Primal Scream and Chemical Brothers, and seasoning it with mantras and "visions". Doesn't the "lazy" development of the opener "Tempo 116.7" or "Let's Go Fucking Mental" remind you of the best Happy Mondays? Aren't the acoustic guitars in "This is The First..." (by the way, what a fantastic piece!) the same as in "Kinky Afro"? Wouldn't "The One" fit perfectly on "XTRMNTR" by Bobby Gillespie and company? And when listening to "Feel It", my first thought was about the sumptuous remix the Chemical Brothers could produce.

I wouldn't want you to think this is too derivative an album. BJM, with their characteristic bulimia, blend all their skills and knowledge. There are the usual raga, the usual acid undertones, the voices coming from hyperspace, and everything that made me love them over the years. There's even a clear tribute to Joy Division in "This is The One Thing...".

In the usual kaleidoscopic cauldron, there are also a couple of things they could have spared us, like the ten minutes of the closing "Felt Tipped-Pen Pictures of UFO'S", a long chat about the Beatles on a soporific base, or the Balkan dance hypothesis of "Dekta! Dekta! Dekta!".

But we forgive them without hesitation: if only there were more bands and albums like these, in these lean times.