The Flaming Lips
Transmissions From The Satellite Heart

THE REVIEW

It's not easy to have stayed here, alone, outside this beautiful house, without anyone showing interest in me.

With all my brothers in there, keeping each other company in silence under everyone's eyes, you just have to look for them a bit.

I don't understand why.

Could it be because of this writing they stuck inside my sleeve?

"Ciao a tutti nostri amici morti"

Maybe someone thinks I bring bad luck?

And then I think (for what I can manage to think), wouldn't it have been better to have weight, height, the Apgar index like they do with humans, or: "This is a Flaming Lips CD. Please listen to it, at maximum volume. Thank you all!!"?

Oh well, by now I'm used to it, I was born this way.

So, let's talk a little about me.

I'm 15 years old, more or less.

The ones who created me, as I think you've guessed, are the Flaming Lips: a misfit on bass, a chronic neurotic on guitar, a drug addict on drums, and a madman (and out-of-tune) on vocals.

What could come out of that?

So, let's see what they wrote on the jacket: "Turn it On", "Pilot Can at the Queer Of God", "Superhumans".

"Pilot Can at the Queer Of God"?

This title reminds me of the name of a friend of mine who a long time ago was together with me, also outside DeBaser, "The Piper aT The Gates of Dawn".

Now I remember all the time we spent together, he always talked to me about his dad, and maybe something of his is also inside me, maybe right inside "Pilot Can at the Queer Of God", something to do with a stethoscope and a drum attack. I don't remember exactly.

And again, what did they write here?

"Moth in the Incubator".

This also reminds me of something.

And so I'll let you listen to it directly, this "Moth in the Incubator", just the time to find a player to dive into or a bit of imagination in your ears.

Yes, well, here it is for you, in words (thanks to my benefactor for the help).

A melody and a plaintive song at the start, melancholic, with a few acoustic guitar notes.

Background noises, as if it were recorded live in the kitchen of a fast food on the road from Oklahoma City to Neverland...

"Something in you, it jitters like a moth
And I see that your arms are out to God
And oh, they kill you when they talk
It makes a mountain peak seem little when it's not"

I imagine the feelings and thoughts of my dad, a young "fish-frier" to whom God has just revealed the contingent nature of death in the form of a gun pointed at his temple by a doped-up customer in withdrawal from heroin, in a bored American afterhours of the early '80s. But also of my mom, a talented multi-instrumentalist for whom music is everything, from melancholic and contagious joy, passionate about '70s English progressive, with a heroin habit

...a dispassionate interlude, almost glam, crashing, like T.Rex. Just to forget the shock and remember to be alive...

Your incubator is so tight (2x)
I've been born before, I'm pretty used to it
Brain-dead is always all there is

So embryonic