Meat Puppets - Up on the Sun

SST

21/3/85

The weirdly elegant worlds of The Meat Puppets' Up On the Sun turn 40. Brothers of meat. Goofs of the guitar. Music like honey, dripping with sweet innocence. The jittery hee-haws. Happy campers. Swell individuals, even sweller collective. Ingenuity funnelled through the act of fun. You'll find the spirit of Primus within these sonic walls - albeit without the overly freaky sense of surrealism; still surrealistic nonetheless. Lyrical gumbo fortified through nonsensical trains. Pull the string and see where it leads. Dead end? Pull another. Gold burns slow. The path is never straight forward. Forays into foreign mental space is a certainty. Be vigilant of the ticking timebombs and make it out relatively unscathed! Some bombs can't be disposed of - they become a part of whoever steps on their irrational being. 

Funky intricacies. Endearingly awkward and off-kilter. The right amount of left-turns amongst an already mighty sense of left-leaning characteristics. The world is what you want it to be - look at it from another angle and it all-of-a-sudden flips on its head. Things aren't working? Subtract before you add. Call-and-response. The guitars whistle back and forth to meet at some sort of agreement. Happy steps are taken in accordance with an underlying breezy ease. Life doesn't have to be hard, but it does have to wake you up if you won't wake yourself. Get there first and it works with you. 

Technically astute - sharp. Two streams of thought intertwine - brain fog or uncontrollable genius? The thin line between smart and stupid has never been more fine. Heavy-handed, sparkly funk. Dense with a heavenly touch. 

Not too much more, too much more. Things appear when they need to. Up on the sun where it never rains or snows.

'A long time agooooooo, I looked at myself and said youuuuuu, you are my daughter.'