Like the prism on the iconic cover of Dark Side of the Moon, Pink Floyd's legacy can be refracted many different ways. For one, there's the different eras marked by different bandleaders, from Syd Barrett's storybook psychedelia to Roger Waters misanthropic art-rock to David Gilmour's inoffensive arena-filling stuff. But there are also more subjective takes on the Floyd's influence: you could view them as psych-prog pioneers or the bloat that inspired punk, the band that pushed the limit of the rock concert or the band that made the concert more about theatrics than music, studio wizards or mere inventors of a popular stereo test record.
You might divine then why Floyd appeals to the Flaming Lips right now. I count at least five of those things on that list that could be lobbed (fairly or un-) at the Lips after 27 years; being hated by Johnny Rotten is the only one (probably) beyond their reach. And their appreciation runs deep-- in an interview with Pitchfork's Ryan Dombal, Wayne Coyne remembered goofing on Jesus and Mary Chain fans by covering "Wish You Were Here", when the bands toured together in 1984. But why tackle hoary old Dark Side now, on the heels of the band's triumphant return to in-your-face psychedelic weirdness on last year's Embryonic? And why invite a cavalcade of characters-- Peaches, Henry Rollins, Coyne's nephew's band-- certain to make people think it's all a gag?
After all, Dark Side of the Moon is an album so ingrained in the collective consciousness your grandma can probably call "Money” from the first ring of the cash register. It was also, arguably, Floyd's big money play-- a strange thing to say for a 40-minute continuous song cycle, but a clear conclusion when you look at the swollen 20-minute epics and found-sound experiments that came before it on Meddle and Atom Heart Mother. Ambitious and as tightly wound as a symphony, Dark Side is nevertheless made up of detachable movements that can double as standalone pop songs and classic rock staples.
The Lips, of course, don't go for precision or radio-friendliness, even as they seem to be paying tribute rather than taking the piss out of Pink Floyd. Perhaps the Soft Bulletin-era Lips would've had some interest in recreating the grandeur of the Floyd's original, but the run-through sometimes resembles a sibling of Embyronic's oddities. "Breathe", in both its appearances, reprises the jagged bass grooves and guitar sqwonk of "Convinced of the Hex" and "See the Leaves", while "On the Run" and "Any Colour You Like" are fractured space-boogie that echo the gloriously messy sprawl of "Powerless" and "The Ego's Last Stand".
Those standout instrumentals are collaborations with Stardeath and White Dwarfs, the band fronted by Wayne Coyne's nephew Dennis Coyne, and both make Coyne family reunions sound like good, illegal fun-- jammy affairs that sprinkle some much needed disco dust on Floyd's austere originals. Left to their own devices, Stardeath's take on "Time" and "Brain Damage" are less inspired, the former replacing the clockwork rhythm with coughing and panting and lost lyrics, the latter coming off relatively flat compared to the original, despite well-deployed singing saw. The kids shouldn't feel so bad, as the old guys don't fare too well themselves, neutering "Money" into a mechanized 8-bit lope, and minimally adjusting the track that needs the most help, the plodding "Us and Them".
The second tier of guests are also a split decision. Peaches' job is basically to moan orgasmically through "Great Gig in the Sky". But Henry Rollins, tasked with recreating the snippets of dialogue from Floyd's crew that float around the original, contributes all the line-reading talent you'd expect from the star of "The Chase" and "Feast". At least he doesn't attempt an English accent.
The guest star clusterfuck brings to mind the similar project of the Lips' former tourmate Beck, whose Record Club series brings a random cast of characters to record an album in one day. The comparison doesn't reflect well on this Dark Side though, which comes off stiffer than Beck's ramshackle recreations, but without much in the way of thoughtful annotations to add to the original text. At its best, it's a more unhinged take on Floyd's song cycle of insanity-- like putting the Floyd that played "Interstellar Overdrive" into a time machine to meet the Floyd that wrote "Money". But the Flaming Lips and their co-conspirators can't settle on a color of the Floyd spectrum and run with it, leaving this Dark Side as a lunar capsule lost somewhere between a love letter and a joke.
