this, this is all over the goddam place, in the best possible way. a gorgeous, glorious fucking racket. one whose constituent parts seem equal parts hair, neon and inner cosmic realignment. the tale of genesis reimagined as a pokemon cartoon and narrated by julian cope. it sounds not surprisingly a bit like acid mothers temple, a bit like afrirampo. but (and here’s the rub) the bilateral amalgam of these travellers seems to have smoothed away their sometimes irritating excesses. so no twenty six minute guitar skronkage, no teeth-on-edge haribo-fueled shrieks. it’s very much an ode to collaboration. to quote: this album is the story about the cosmic shaman pikacyu vs the master of the darkness makoto… can’t help but feel the presence of pikacyu’s six-armed drumming and three-mouthed chanting has acted as bromide on makoto’s usual white-knuckled permanent adolescent guitar onanisms. less cock more cunt, to get all lingually base. and meant as unpejoratively as possible. just glad someone’s made the attempt to reign in makamoto’s engorgedness. don’t get me wrong, it’s all still a bit bonkers as you’d expect, nay demand. in some gorgeous land far far away this is what passes for pop music. oddly angled like lovecraft as spacerock galactus. if you must, call it prog (fuck you!) unaware, no sense of itself, played with zonked confidence and oblivious fluency. narcosis blissed and dreamy, manic and caffeine jittery. a whole muss of contradiction. drones and drums. voice and voom. bastard pseudoharmony and semirhythms. feels like it’s gonna fall apart at any given minute, restlessly looking for a way out. somewhere between unfettered and structured, between melodious and de(re)tuned, lies om sweet home, sweatdripping and breathless.