MGMT – ‘Loss of Life’ album review: baroque pop lost in space
THE SKINNY: Some albums seem to set sail for the stars, and others feel like they’re merely folk records lost in a space echo chamber; Loss of Life by MGMT is the latter. However, that isn’t quite as condemning as it might initially sound because the trip bails itself out of this predicament by musing, existentially, on the very notion of being lost and adrift in the bewildering modern age.
It’s Andrew VanWyngarden and Benjamin Goldwasser’s fifth album since they arrived in 2007 with Oracular Spectacular and announced themselves as the duo most likely to steal your thunder on an Australian backpacking holiday. On it, they get highly experimental with the production. The soundscape they opt for is space-age in the Joe Meek sense, conjuring thoughts of the stratosphere. But beneath it all is simple baroque pop that often goes awry chasing a flurry of disruption, symptomatic of a band in their teenage years growing tired of simplicity.
This results in many epic moments. However, it also results in moments when the wavering wooziness seems to cut you adrift, losing the listener in the same bewildering blur that it sings of. In effect, it can occasionally be hoisted by its own Proustian petard. Thankfully, more often than not, their skilful songwriting and ability to transfigure a composition in mid-flow serve as a tether that brings you back into focus. Nevertheless, there are a few times when your mood fails to align with the record, and you crave something rather more linear, visceral, and solid.
In this regard, it is an album that refuses to meet you halfway. In a literal sense, you must wait until the finale to hear the grief at the record’s core pronounced clearly. And yet, this uncompromising nature also never leaves you cold. There is a crooned warmth pervading throughout, alongside a sense of wonder and highly original synth sounds that keep you comfortably engaged.
For every point, there is a counterpoint for the enigmatic Loss of Life. The conceit of this is that it reaffirms MGMT’s status as one of the world’s leading bands since they emerged, but it does so with plenty of imperfections amid a swirling welter. It’s a record that doesn’t quite shoot for the stars. It just launches itself into the stratosphere and is happy to idly experiment in the space that affords it, mixing epic awe with patches where you pray for something more down to Earth.
For Fans Of: Attempting to read Proust stoned as a bat only to realise you’ve actually just been staring at the ceiling for hours and don’t even own a copy of the French existentialist’s work.
A concluding comment from the Hippy Bandana Movement spokesperson: “If this doesn’t mark a return of headwear that reflects Nepalese thinking and folk aesthetics, then, by God, nothing will.”
Loss of Life track by track:
‘Loss of Life (part 2)’: A lullaby-like melody is punctuated by the sort of 1960s BBC infomercial voice that makes you feel like you’re absorbing knowledge, even though you’re actually only privy to a bombardment of nonsense. Not a bad intro in terms of building drama and atmosphere, but I’ve heard it many times before. [2.5/5]
‘Mother Nature’: A cut that could’ve easily been placed on Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, and that’s no mean feat for dreamy indie. The rather crowded instrumentation can overwhelm the lyrics somewhat, but when everything slips into harmony, an epic chord is struck. [4/5]
‘Dancing in Babylon’: A spacefly buzzes into the sonics at the beginning, but this experimental intro quickly fizzles out into a bit of seamless baroque pop. Thereafter, the song seems to desperately try not to break into the cheesy power ballad it was born to, and that alone is a strange force to behold, like watching a reluctant ABBA. [4/5]
‘People In The Streets’: In an album that loves to waver, the space-age echo chamber is this time laid over some sweet folk plucking. The sparsity this time allows the lyrics to embolden themselves—they are hopeful but a decidedly avant-garde look at the impermanence of life. [3.5/5]
‘Bubblegum Dog’: Perhaps the most stripped-back song on the album, which builds itself on a simple bluesy riff. Steadily, it stacks distortion and polyphonic synth on top, creating a mounting volley reminiscent of the Dandy Warhols, resulting in a crescendo of wailing guitar. [3.5/5]
‘Nothing to Declare’: A retro cut right down to the slide guitar and punny title, there is a beautiful feeling of baroque pop extermination to this humble anthem. The filigreed infills, like the sumptuous bars, are arpeggio plucking, showcasing their ability as musicians, while the all-around refinement is the best of the band’s compositional skill. [4.5/5]
‘Nothing Changes’: The song fetches around for an epic status but gets off the blocks about as quickly as an obese slug. Then, in a manner akin to Echo & The Bunnymen, it pairs a heavily resonant echo with simple strumming and existential bleating. There’s a luscious swell, but it suffers by virtue of the fact that it fails to eclipse the influences it readily enlists, and an inventive middle-eight only marginally masks that. [3/5]
‘Phradie’s Song’: Hushed and meek yet otherworldly and Homeric, like a lullaby recorded on a hurtling space shuttle, this track occupies a strange musical paradigm. You have to admire the sweetness, experimentation, and sense of atmosphere. But at the same time, you have to question what exactly it conveys. [3/5]
‘I Wish I Was Joking’: “Here’s the thing about drugs,” the song declares, punctuating the established wishy-washy dreamscape sound of the record. What follows is a stream of hard truths while a piano lays out the beats that push the song along to an applauding conclusion. [4/5]
‘Loss of Life’: A cosmic reflection on grief and our minuscule place in the universe. It finds a fitting partner in a swell of music that feels equal parts choral and like the ascent of a rocket. Blissful and warm, without slapping you with the full force of a searing crescendo. [4/5]
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