Labels such as ‘weird’, ‘experimental’, ‘avant-garde’ and ‘genre-hopping’ have been used to describe countless bands, but surely no-one since the barrel-scraping heyday of the Plastic Ono Band has earned these descriptions more than Brooklyn artistes The Fiery Furnaces. Hopscotching insanely from genre to genre, not just over the course of the album but several times within each and every song on it, displaying a wilful Zappa-esque refusal to follow the same groove for more than half a minute without completely changing tack, Blueberry Boat is by far the strangest thing you’ll hear this decade, short of a Syd Barrett comeback. (Now there’s a thought – petitions on an air-mail postcard to the Sea of Tranquility on the Moon, please).
Cerebral New York eggheads given to wandering off in all directions bizarre and esoteric – Talking Heads with no discipline, if you like, or Beefheart filtered through a paranoid schizophrenic’s personal computer – this batty 76-minute collection encompasses late-’60s psychedelic blues, brilliant Revolver-like hard-edged guitar, bubblegum pop, folk, punk and whatever you’re having yourself, while The Furnaces’ lyrical concerns range from Finnish history to the bubonic plague to the London tube transport system. The most evident influence of all (by proxy, of course) is old Dr. Hofmann’s lysergic acid diathylemide: to describe this stuff as ‘trippy’ would be to wholly under-prepare you for the utter lack of structure and conventional melodic logic. Basically, it makes Piper At The Gates of Dawn sound Abba-smooth.
But is Blueberry Boat any good? On one level, it’s easy to be impressed by the Fiery Furnaces’ sprawling ambition, extensive stylistic range, steel balls and total originality. Nonetheless, it’s not for nothing that Zappa tapes used to mysteriously find their way into the bin whenever anyone was daft enough to leave them lying around my house, and the Furnaces‚ incessant, disconcertingly abrupt changes of pace, mood and melody simply won’t allow the songs room to breathe.
Almost every track contains intriguing fragments senselessly broken up as soon as possible, presumably in case anyone gets lulled into the trap of humming along, moving their feet or generally betraying enjoyment. There’s much to admire about The Fiery Furnaces, without doubt, but one doesn’t need a narrow mind to find their approach tiresome – a smidgeon of focus, and fewer incidental dishwasher noises, might make them a more enticing proposition.
An infuriating album from an undeniably talented bunch, not likely to soundtrack too many parties or become the subject of Westlife cover versions any time soon.