There’s so much going on with this album, any life-fearing Daily Mail-reading fossil would think it an example of attention deficit disordered ‘Broken Britain’, if they heard it.
It’s Willie Wonka’s Pop Factory and they would be the parents chasing their innocence and imaginations down the nearest drain. Or, if you will, it’s a kitchen sink of popular music kitchen sinks, mixed into a blender once belonging to Graceland-era Paul Simon and garnished with the grated contents of the first twenty-five Now That’s What I Call Music compilations.
Of course, it repays more than a single listen. I don’t think I’ve ever heard an album so obviously grabbing the mainstream by the throat and shouting ‘you are pathetic - this is where you should be going’ as Odd Blood does, for some time. ‘Psychedelic’ gets bandied about too often with Yeasayer but this album is too contrived for that, so don’t go in expecting stereotypical trippiness - this is a Dr. Moreau approach to pop music. See if you can spot where the different limbs and organs come from.