the story goes that hieronymus bosch was a member of the adamites sect, heretical, obsessed with the fleshier temptations, but one where cock and cunt were free from sin. they sought a world of guiltless sex, of euphoric screwing, of blissful fucking, of carefree boning. you get the slightly soiled picture, non? so his garden of earthly delights triptych (see where i’m going with this…) could be read not as a warning against the pursuit of sloppy pleasure but as a vision of earthly heaven. not so much a narrative of innocence, temptation and the hellbound fall due to those saucy bloody women and their lovely soft bits, but a celebration of the simple joy of amorous fondling and ejaculatory joy.
all of which quite accurately encompasses the eruptive glee of the new lightning bolt album. *
for all the talk of chaos that surrounds lightning bolt there’s an element of almost sensually tight control that runs through the core of their gay abandon. as utterly gurning deranged as they are live (and slightly less so on record) it takes some degree of restraint to focus this level of intensity and yes dammit virtuosity and not have it sound a complete masturbatory mess. as established previously lightning bolt are all about the coitus not the onanistic. not that there’s necessarily anything wrong with this, but it’s for other buggers to (self)indulge in.
whilst not exactly a progression to verse chorus verse pop structure this is a kindof refined and polished gem compared to say wonderful rainbow’slump of bonkers coal. i’ll stress again this sure as heck ain’t pet shop boys territory we’re in. just that they’ve added a touch more diversity, a touch of light and shade, some subtle changes to their face-fucking battery technique.
so the template’s still in place. the bass. the three drums. the distorto-chatter. the hypno-riffing. nation of boar and s.o.s. hold no truck with progression. this shit is primitive and regressive, the unrelenting noise of two guys called brian engaged in old school sweatsoaked instro-destruction.
but there’s wonky melody creeping around the proceedings like some schneaky seedy peeper opposite a girls school. see rain on lake i’m swimming in with its monged nursery rhyme kids tv theme shenanigans. or the middle east twang that molests yr ears suddenly unexpectedly on a few tracks, exemplified by the rolling stones paint it black / nirvana breed / omar souleyman dabke thrashmagoria of the sublime freak. add to this heady brew some slidey blooze on the monstrous dayglo om-esque colossus (one of the best things they’ve recorded) or country boogie twang on funny farm and frankly you have nothing short of deconstructed musical mentalism. but what wonderful deconstructed musical mentalism it is. one that pounds on you remorselessly while gently tickling those bits you like tickled.
