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Of Montreal - Skeletal Lamping
| Drownedinsound |
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Of course we're all indie-rock fans here, but really, is there a genre more contemptibly indulgent of conservatism? If it was r'n'b, metal, hip hop, jazz, visual art, live art, heck, even mainstream pop, the pressure to innovate - or at least to pretend to – would be indescribably heavier. I'm not saying there's no backwards-looking metal, and I'm not saying that the definition of indie hasn't become so problematic that more innovative bands don't get shunted into other generic pockets. What I am saying is that the Incas could scarcely have been more astonished by Cortez and cronies than some people appear to be by Glasvegas, and that's goddamn depressing. Of Montreal are pretty unquestionably an indie outfit. And they – or at least Kevin Barnes, who effectively is the band – have made an album called Skeletal Lamping that's so psychotically overambitious, so ballsy, bewildering, beautiful, mad, terrifying, romantic, depraved, unwieldy, illogical and just plain wrong that it shames the aspirations of near enough anyone you might call their peers....full text |
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| Musicomh |
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When you flick across channels sometimes it makes sense in a weirdly disjointed way and sometimes it's complete gibberish. Welcome to of Montreal's latest album, a musical version of channel hopping. Skeletal Lamping is nothing if not confused, but it never once descends into gibberish. But then this is an album that deals primarily in sex, and if there's a subject guaranteed to get people confused, then it is sex. Kudos then to Kevin Barnes, the man who basically is Of Montreal as he lays bare his take on the sexual world. Constantly switching roles as the album progresses: at times he's a prostitute, then a prude, then afraid of experience, and sometimes he's a black shemale named Georgie Fruit (who first made an appearance on the Hissing Fauna album). This is not your normal run of the mill album then, as it takes on sex from a variety of positions, some romantic, some lustful and some downright violent....full text |
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| Urb |
| The first couple laps around, it is impossible to get through an entire track. Everything is too epic, expansive, the entire cycle of a moon over my hammy sans the hammy, plus tomato, extra cheese, gooey, greasy, succulent, sociopathic: a gang bang. But every bite surpasses the last, I porously admit, the more Sparks cans involved in listening parties. All tracks actually melt into their neighbors; the Dennys sandwich cohesion retains its crunch licking gummy meticulousness. The impossibility of connection traces fingers across intellect with cunning heat. Mind blown, particularly over “Wicked Wisdom”s delicate hip-hop, “St. Exquisite’s Confessions” and its haughty indulgence, opening with “I’m so sick of suckin the dick of this cruel, cruel city.”...full text |
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