Pitchfork

Billy Corgan needs someone on his shoulder to whisper "no." The angel has apparently taken a break for now, but it might have said things like, "No, Billy, you're not Nicky Nosferatu, the Cabbage Patch Kid"; "No, Billy, black leather trenchcoat-dresses do not flatter you"; "No, Billy, working with Flood will not make your records sound good"; and most importantly, "No, Billy, some of those songs are better left in the ProTools wastebasket." Somebody needs to have line-item veto power over the one-party congress of Corgan's ego. Over half of the Pumpkins' 103 post-Siamese Dream songs could have been cut to make three decent albums.

Sometimes I wish you readers could sit on this side of music criticism. It's amusing to see how many writers mine bands' official press releases and follow the leader. The press on MACHINA serves as an interesting example. Nearly every review I've read proclaims the new record to be "a return to form" or "a return to their hard rocking days" or "the true follow-up to Siamese Dream." Obviously, they're trying to distance MACHINA from Adore, the least successful Pumpkins record to date. The whole thing stinks of PR.

MACHINA just sounds like a continuation of Adore. It's the infinite sadness to Adore's Mellon Collie. In fact, Adore showcased greater variation, better production, and about as much "rocking." Writers keep focusing on Jimmy Chamberlin's return, but the venerable Joey Waronker, who played all over Adore, was similarly talented. Besides, Chamberlin's overproduced, steady clicking on MACHINA sounds exactly like-- and might as well be-- a drum machine.

Every track on MACHINA sits in a heavy syrup of synthesizer. Flood deep-fries the sound in golden calf fat. Guitars hiss like hig pressure hoses. Gelatinous bass issues from the crust like pus. The psoriatic sound comes off like infected yellow scabs growing on fragile frosted glass. If this is a "return to form," Billy Corgan has thrown his baby-head out with the bathwater. Siamese Dream never utilized computer and keyboard crutches to such a degree.

Every generation of kids in black needs a goth martyr, and Billy vies for their troubled hearts throughout MACHINA. Plodding numbers like "The Crying Tree of Mercury" and "Blue Skies Bring Tears" steal liberally from the cemetary-obsessed Cure songs that never seem to make it to singles compilations. Even the albums strongest tracks-- "Wound", "Raindrops + Sunshowers", and the ironically titled "Try, Try, Try"-- lugubriously cruise along like New Order in a crystal convertible flossed out with chrome.

Sadly, an ego scud has detonated on Corgan's muse, distributing the gore between the territories of 4AD, Windham Hill, Cleopatra, and Elementree. The result is songs like "Heavy Metal Machine", a static-drenched dinosaur that slowly shits Soundgarden's "Rusty Cage", and the hysterical "Glass and the Ghost Children", in which Chamberlin pulls his best Neil Peart imitation while Corgan and Iha spittle fuzz like Orgy covering Cream's Disraeli Gears. Midway through the ten-minute bulk of "Ghost Children", a lone piano interludes while tapes of Corgan confessionals crackle on top: "I always assume that the voice I hear is the voice of God," he proclaims. "So I'm operating on the premise that I hear the voice of God." Atheists rejoice. Then, four more minutes of underwater gongs and seagull guitars bring you back down from the laughter. And just to put the official seal on The World's Most Pretentious Stadium Rock Song Ever certificate, Corgan finishes with the refrain: "As she counted the spiders/ As they crawled up inside her."

The Pumpkins' fascination with sepia tones, parchment, and God kills whatever joy might otherwise be gleaned from their fifth LP. Filling the entire capacity of a compact disc, MACHINA simply blabbers on far too long. Even grating tracks like "The Everlasting Gaze" become appreciated for the fact that they at least grate.

The problems with Billy Corgan are conveniently packaged in the track "I of the Mourning" (note the fucking "u"). Over reheated new wave pop and fluff-metal that sparks under microwaves, Corgan whines through his wax-paper septum, "Radio/ Play my favourite song/ Radio/ Radio/ Radio/ I'm alone/ Pick up where my thoughts left off." Radio is a commercial-bloated joke. When's the last time, Pitchfork reader, you heard your favorite song on the radio? Who even listens to the radio? Who finds solace in FM? I mean, shit, what do they even play these days? Oh. The Smashing Pumpkins.