There’s been plenty of whimsy in The Flaming Lips’ catalog over the past decade or so, the musical equivalent of all the brightly colored streamers and revellers boogying down in animal costumes who have enlivened their concerts in recent years.
But not so much on their latest disc, “The Terror,” whose title telegraphs its ominous, haunting tone.
With guitars and mirth largely absent from the mix, “The Terror” is a bloodless, disembodied record with chilly, hissing electronics, vocals that rarely rise above a murmur and a faint, digital pulse.
It’s an album devoid of bearings, akin to floating in deep space, tethered to nothing.
Open the pod bay doors, HAL.
Contact reporter Jason Bracelin at firstname.lastname@example.org or 702-383-0476.