Pitchfork

On 1979's New Picnic Time, Pere Ubu singer David Thomas announces his return appropriately enough with the shrill, frighteningly manic cries of "Hey, it's me again!," over a groove more danceable than any Pere Ubu groove ought to be. Thomas comes on like a troubled old pal who's just shown up at your doorstep after being probed and tortured for years in the neighborhood sanitarium's solitary confinement ward.

Thomas is certainly bouncing off the walls, along with the rest of his merry band. Evidently they must have thought, in a fit of crazed hindsight, that 1978's innovative (and sufficiently weird) Dub Housing sounded too poppy. "We've simply got to get weirder with this album, people, if we wish to become the critically- acclaimed, ahead of its time, yet less- than financially successful selling cult band we've set out to be. We've just got to keep people confused. Whooaah! Glorp and Gnip gnop, thanks..." bandleader Thomas may have been heard to say a number of times during this album's recording sessions. Of course, the above- quoted passage would have had to be translated into proper English. It was likely originally delivered in a strange Ubu-esque tongue consisting mainly of bird calls, sneezes, hyena- like laughing, nautical semaphore, and Post- Gregorian chants.

Yep, just when you think New Picnic Time is some sort of post- punk boogie record, our psychologically- scarred Ubuoids begin to realize that this near- conventionality must cease. Suddenly, on "Small Was Fast" we get into bird whistling over some spare but sinister- sounding horror soundtrack music-- a fractured musical form they seemed to enjoy tinkering with on Dub Housing. Thomas repeats the line, "There's a fly in the ointment," on what seems like an infinite loop. Then we eventually notice various other mechanically- manipulated animal- like sounds hovering over the ominous instrumental track. All the while, Thomas babbles, cackles, and lets fly a slew of miscellaneous verbal fragments in squeaky dog- like yelps and yaps. And speaking of dogs, the subsequent track, "All the Dogs are Barking," continues with the sort of eerie Windham Hill- meets- David Lynch (or Zappa- meets- Caligari's Cabinet) soundtrack stylings the zany Ubu brethren love so dearly.

And although the critical establishment is notorious for letting both bone- numbing minimalist repetition and rampant, rudderless insanity undeservedly pass for unquestionable brilliance, I do honestly think some of New Picnic Time makes for some riveting listening. But it's not nearly as awe- inspiring and musically diverse as Dub Housing. Tom Herman's jazz- inflected mad scientist guitar playing doesn't figure into the overall picture quite as heavily. And Allen Ravenstine's screeching nails- on- chalkboard shock- synth seems hardly present, save for the occasionally momentary bursts.

New Picnic Time sounds less like effortless brilliance than some of Pere Ubu's other work, and much more like a bunch of mad geniuses aimlessly farting around in the laboratory of sound. I'd say about half of these tracks, including the soulful schizophrenia of "Make Hay," prove to be worth a serious listen. Each of the band's seemingly spontaneous instrumental vamps tackle one particular rhythmic idea and attempt to drive us out of our normal lay minds with it.

And if the music itself doesn't leave you a dithering, frothing- at- the- mouth fool, then there's always the incoherent, impossibly insistent Dadaist ravings of David Thomas. 'Ol Dave loves stringing together those non- sequiturs-- releasing them into the atmosphere by way of his blood- pressure- boosting vocal attack. So be prepared. Keep one finger steadily poised on the fast- forward button. Listening to all 40+ minutes of New Picnic Time may eventually lead to public pleas of insanity, and a long visit with your local Nurse Ratchet. In my case, I merely attempted to devour my portable discman. Mmmm, Sony.