PBX Funicular Intaglio Zone

This post easily could have been titled “The Inevitable Fall; John Frusciante has let me down.”

I have never been much of a Chilli Peppers fan.  Their music has always struck me as being incredibly hollow, one-dimensional and generally silly.  I also think Anthony Kiedis looks like a rapist from Cincinnati with a penchant for Grandmothers.

“Grandmothers and other moderately talented assholes.”

He just disgusts me.
If you have frequented this site, and you likely have because it’s awesome, then you’ll have found out in the past that although the Chilli Peppers leave a bad taste in my mouth, John Frusciante and his solo endeavors have made me weep sweet tears of musically blissful joy.

So, when I heard that Frusciante was releasing a new album, oh boy, did I get giddy.  See, lately I have been a bit conflicted regarding which direction I want to go with this writing thing, and this website in general.  I have been spending a ridiculous amount of time working out and although the creative juices and the concepts and the visions keep coming, nothing really turned me  on enough to force my ass into this chair here at the writing desk.

This is why I was so looking forward to “PBX Funicular Intaglio Zone”.  I felt like it could be a return to old form.  A cheap time machine back a few years to the beginning when the direction wasn’t an issue; simply the action was all that was needed and that spark kept things warm enough for us to work.  Maybe I put too much stock in Frusciante.  He’s only a man, after all.  Sure, a musical genius but really just some guy, and like my own shifting sensibilities and aesthetics, he too must be susceptible to the abyss which is constant creative energy.  This abyss, this black hole of churning diss-assembly and construction is where this absolute abortion of an album crawled out of.

“When you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you….and then you make a shitty record.”

Gone are the guitar magic solo’s that wooed me in “The Empyrean.”  These are replaced with what I will call, and I make a face conveying my disgust as I type this, acid synth pop blended with sonic distortion. I know, you never thought you would read those words on these glorious pages.  I never thought I would be forced to write them.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike electro-pop and electro house.  I have been a Kavinsky fan for sometime and it seems many of the same elements are being employed here, but the problem is that Frusciante in this is just so diffuse.  The album simply rambles on and on, up and down, over here and over there, often in the middle of songs.  It’s what it must be  like inside the mind of a 11-year-old boy with an ultra-intense case of A.D.D. and his first conscious erection and free access to the play boy channel.  It’s just ALL OVER THE FUCKING PLACE.

The album is not without one or two nuggets, however.  “Sum” is the 9th track and is brilliant.  It’s what an electro-synth-pop effort by Frusciante SHOULD be.  It’s just a shame the preceding noise on the album makes me want to claw out my eyes and fill the bloody sockets with the physical manifestations of my regret.

In the end, I will say that everyone makes mistakes (“The Spaghetti Incident?“/ “Glamorama“).  And, although this album is largely barf, it has accomplished what I had hoped it would, if not via the anticipated avenue; I am back at my desk and I am writing.

Cheers John Frusciante. Cheers.

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