So Oscar Wilde and I were listening to Kula Shaker’s 1998 LP Peasants, Pigs & Astronauts when Oscar said, “I’m utterly charmed. One rarely runs across a band dumb enough to wear its influences on its collective sleeve. Take “Golden Avatar.” It’s obviously “Tomorrow Never Knows” plus Oasis, but instead of crying foul one merely basks in its gilded glow.” I said, “Oscar, you’re getting soft in your old age.” “Such is the tragedy of life,” he said ruefully. “One grows more innocent as one grows older. I, for one, miss the sweet corruption of youth.”
The Mancunians in Kula Shaker mingle the anthemic tendencies of Britpop (well, post-Britpop actually) with the trappings of Hindu mysticism and instrumentation, and sometimes the approach works. But when they dispense with the pop trappings altogether in favor of taking a swan dive “into the mystic” they often sound as vapid as George Harrison; as Oscar noted, “If there’s anything more unhappy-making than an English gentleman caught up in the contemplation of the universal navel, I don’t want to know what it is.”
Frontman Crispian Mills had his spiritual awakening whilst backpacking across India following the break up of his previous band, Objects of Desire. Returning to England with a spark of spiritual madness in his eye, Mills set about infusing his pop music with lethal injections of Hindu spirituality and mysticism, to say nothing of tablas, sitars, and the like. At its best, the finished product recalls the yogi-happy sounds of the psychedelic sixties.
“I’m a big fan of ‘Sound of Drums,’” said the inimitable Oscar. “What with its big beat, groovy psychedelic sound and Mills going on about shaking the spear of love. He can shake his spear of love at me anytime.” “You’re incorrigible,” I replied, adding, “Me, I love the big organ.” “I thought that’s what I was talking about,” quipped Oscar. “Well, there’s no denying it has anthemic written all over it,” I said. “I’m also head over heels in lust with ‘Shower Your Love’,” opined Oscar. “It’s a power pop song for the ages.” “I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “I sprout angel wings every time I hear it.”
We cranked up “Mystical Machine Gun.” “The perfect balance of earthy funk and otherworldly spiritualism,” concluded Oscar. “Rather reminds me of T. Rex, it does.” We both gave the hard-rocking “S.O.S.” thumbs down. “There is nothing more offensive to the sophisticated olfactory gland than a message song,” said Oscar. “I mean, what is his problem with hypocrisy exactly? It’s the tribute virtue pays to vice.” My problem with the song went beyond its holier-than-thou rage to the actual lyrics. “Every time I turn/A microscopic worm/Is telling me he’s it/Dressed in robes of Cosmic ego/Crawling round in shit” may be some of the silliest lines ever. As for mankind, Mills declares we’ve become “the spawn of Satan,” evidently because we drive around in automobiles. “He makes being a spawn of Satan sound like a bad thing,” said Oscar ruefully.
We both agreed that “108 Battles (of the Mind)” was a perfect evocation of the swinging sixties, and that the wiry guitar, harmonica, and swirling organ all tripped the light fantastic, as did the groovy vocal harmonies. As for “Timeworm,” it was a bit too “Norwegian Wood” for the both of us. We also concurred that the philosophy espoused in said song would drown in a baby pool. “Last Farewell” is swell, what with its slow but sweet melody and a knockout instrumental break. As for “Great Hosannah,” both Oscar and I agreed that it boasts a funky, rave-happy groove and that perhaps there was something to be said for spiritualism after all. Now if Mills would stop blathering New Age clichés, all would be perfect.
As for the three more traditional Indian-sounding songs on the record, “Radhe Radhe” is the only one you’ll want to check out, mainly because it deviates from the script. It opens with some beautiful keening by an unnamed woman, before exploding into a perfect mix of Eastern and Western sounds. “Dig the clanking percussion!” shouted Oscar. “And that trumpet? Is it a trumpet? It sounds like a trumpet!” Me, I loved the feral guitar. “Namami Nanda-Nandana” is a moody example of easy-listening mysticism, but pretty enough in its way, while the mostly silent “Stotra” is a shameless rip-off of your hard-earned dollar.
In the end, both the inimitable Oscar and I agreed that Peasants, Pigs & Astronauts is a deeply flawed album, but that it includes at least four songs (“Shower Your Love,” “Golden Avatar,” “Mystical Machine Gun,” and “Sound of Drums”) you most definitely want to hear before you depart this mortal coil and are reincarnated as Phyllis Diller. “What I think,” said Oscar in conclusion, “Is that this LP is proof positive that vice is always more amusing than virtue. And Peasants, Pigs & Astronauts does not amuse.” He then replayed “Golden Avatar.” “Far out,” he said.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B
