The Brian Jonestown Massacre
Methodrone

THE REVIEW

I don't think any introduction is needed here on DeBaser for the Californian band led by the brilliant multi-instrumentalist known as Anton Newcombe. We reserve introductions perhaps for this their second album, less Stones-like and more spacey, almost "futuristic" compared to other successors already reviewed.

It's as if, at some point in their evolution, BJM decided to dive headfirst into the sixties, fully embracing a retrospective dive into the past. But here, the retrospection is less distinct, and for that reason, in a sense futuristic. In short, they always look back, but only by a decade.
Probably, even though they have maintained a mood and attitude from the past since their beginnings, in the early days, they were more influenced by their present. However, despite these premises which only serve to change their framing, their creativity remains untouched. The offering has remained brilliant and original, whatever known territory they have crossed. And the strength of Newcombe and co. lies precisely in their ability to artfully tackle a fundamental "derivativity". Indeed.

"Methodrone" (Bomp! Records, 1995) is a psychedelic drone - fancy that. - that grabs you quickly, a collection of pseudo-hits where each piece is in the right place and contributes to raising a monument to Velvet Underground, Stones, Bowie, Spacemen 3, MBV, and JAMC. The grand design of Anton Newcombe...
It's one of those albums that last, characterized by songs that are impeccable, otherworldly, all of them, in every single note of every single instrument or voice, resonating within the listener's guts as if they have always known those songs, as if they were written at the dawn of time in their unconscious, leaving a certain familiar something.

Fundamentally, it's a drugged album - fancy that. (pt. II): Methodrone, methadone... - see the praise for the sound of confusion of Spacemen 3 (therefore Stooges) memory in the hallucinogenic "Hyperventilation" (on which you almost feel like singing strictly with sunglasses and a menacing air: «WELL I'M SICK, I'M SO SICK OF A LOT OF PEOPLE...»), a garage ride that seemingly only loses itself in length and splits the work into two, as if to prepare the listener for the second act, more heterogeneous and open to experimental fragments culminating in the monumental "She's Gone" and the melancholic epilogue of the title track placed at the closing.
Also noteworthy is the Velvet-like use of charming female voices, placed sporadically but with extreme good taste, with parsimony (see "Everyone Say").

These are eternal tracks, like "Wisdom", willing to unite everyone without even remotely feeling the need to compromise, which cannot go unnoticed. They shine with their own light, in the dark, in the underground of a forgotten classic that should have been unanimously considered among the immortal manifestos of the nineties. An "Evergreen".