Smashing Pumpkins
MACHINA/The Machines of God
[Virgin]
Rating: 4.2
Billy Corgan needs someone on his shoulder to whisper "no." The angel has apparently taken
a break for now, but it might have said things like, "No, Billy, you're not Nicky Nosferatu,
the Cabbage Patch Kid;" "No, Billy, black leather trenchcoat-dresses do not flatter you, or
for that matter, Jimmy Chamberlain and James Iha;" "No, Billy, working with Flood will not make
your records sound good;" and most importantly, "No, Billy, some of those songs are better left
in the ProTools wastebasket." Somebody needs to have line-item veto power over the one-party
congress of Corgan's ego. Over half of the Pumpkins' 103 post-Siamese Dream songs
could have been cut to make three decent albums.
Sometimes I wish you readers could sit on this side of music criticism. It's amusing to see
how many writers mine bands' official press releases and follow the leader. The press on
MACHINA serves as an interesting example. Nearly every review I've read proclaims the
new record to be "a return to form" or "a return to their hard rocking days" or "the true
follow-up to Siamese Dream." Obviously, they're trying to distance MACHINA from
Adore, the least successful Pumpkins record to date. The whole thing stinks of P.R.
In reality, though, MACHINA just sounds like a continuation of Adore. It's
the infinite sadness to Adore's Mellon Collie. In fact, Adore showcased
greater variation, better production, and about as much "rocking." Writers keep focusing
on Jimmy Chamberlain's return, but the venerable Joey Waronker, who played all over Adore,
is a far better drummer. Besides, Chamberlain's overproduced, steady clicking on MACHINA
sounds exactly like-- and might as well be-- a drum machine.
Every track on MACHINA sits in a heavy syrup of synthesizer. Flood deep-fries the sound
in golden calf fat. Guitars hiss like hig pressure hoses. Gelatinous bass issues from the crust
like pus. The psoriatic sound comes off like infected yellow scabs growing on fragile frosted
glass. If this is a "return to form," Billy Corgan has thrown his baby-head out with the
bathwater. Siamese Dream never utilized computer and keyboard crutches to such a
degree.
Every generation of kids in black needs a goth martyr, and Billy vies for their troubled hearts
throughout MACHINA. Plodding numbers like "The Crying Tree of Mercury" and "Blue Skies
Bring Tears" steal liberally from the cemetary-obsessed Cure songs that never seem to make it
to singles compilations. Even the albums strongest tracks-- "Wound," "Raindrops + Sunshowers,"
and the ironically titled "Try, Try, Try"-- lugubriously cruise along like New Order in a
crystal convertible flossed out with chrome.
Sadly, an ego scud has blown up Corgan's muse, distributing the gore between the territories
of 4AD, Windham Hill, Cleopatra, and Elementree. The result is songs like "Heavy Metal Machine,"
a static-filled dinosaur that slowly shits Soundgarden's "Rusty Cage," and the hysterical
"Glass and the Ghost Children," in which Chamberlain pulls his best Neil Peart imitation while
Corgan and Iha spittle fuzz like Orgy covering Cream's Disraeli Gears. Midway through
the ten minute bulk of "Ghost Children," a lone piano interludes while tapes of Corgan
confessionals crackle on top. "I always assume that the voice I hear is the voice of God," he
proclaims. "So I'm operating on the premise that I hear the voice of God." Atheists rejoice.
Then, four more minutes of underwater gongs and seagull guitars bring you back down from the
laughter. And just to put the official seal on The World's Most Pretentious Stadium Rock Song
Ever certificate, Corgan finishes with the refrain: "As she counted the spiders/ As they crawled
up inside her." The entire affair makes Tori Amos sound like Raffi.
The Pumpkins' fascination with sepia tones, parchment, and God kills whatever joy might
otherwise be gleaned from their fifth LP. Filling up the entire capacity of a compact disc,
MACHINA simply blabbers on far too long. Even grating tracks like "The Everlasting
Gaze" become appreciated for the fact that they at least grate.
The problems with Billy Corgan are conveniently packaged in the track "I of the Mourning" (note
the fucking "u"). Over reheated new wave pop and fluff-metal that sparks under microwaves,
Corgan whines through his wax-paper septum, "Radio/ Play my favourite [Note the fucking "u"]
song/ Radio/ Radio/ Radio/ I'm alone/ Pick up where my thoughts left off." Radio is a
commercial-bloated joke. When's the last time, Pitchfork reader, you heard your favorite song
on the radio? Who even listens to the radio? Who finds solace in FM? I mean, shit,
what do they even play these days? ...Oh, the Smashing Pumpkins.
-Brent DiCrescenzo