Help! I've Been Kidnapped And Forced To Listen To The Mars Volta

Flip Gilligan,
Music Correspondent

It began when some colleagues of mine were having a drink at our favorite hipster brewery and discussing the catalogue of progressive rock group The Mars Volta. I told them all I preferred the group when they were called At the Drive-In, and even praised their 2000 record “Relationship of Command” as a post-hardcore masterpiece. I lost interest with the group after they disbanded and “revolutionized their sound” with the newly-formed prog outfit The Mars Volta. In my opinion, the emotional vocals and complex instrumentation worked better with a punk sound. When they shifted to prog rock, they became more overwrought and pretentious, and their songs became incredibly long monstrosities that could only be tolerated with the most potent of edibles.

Well, someone must have spiked my drink, because I woke up with my leg chained to a pipe in what looked like some underground bunker. The inside of my head pounded more than the time I had an absinthe-drinking contest with Genesis P-Orridge back in ‘82. The only other objects in the room were a rusty hacksaw, a turntable and a vinyl copy of “Frances the Mute” by, you guessed it, The Mars Volta. The cellphone in my pocket buzzed, and a muffled voice on the other end told me I could either saw off my foot or listen to the album in its entirety.

As I immediately began digging the dull blade into my ankle, I heard the voice tell me they would throw in 20 bucks if I just listened to the goddamn album. After much consideration, I obliged.

The first track “Cygnus… Vismund Cygnus” reminded me too much of late-career Led Zeppelin, when the group were basically milking their sound to its utmost extent. I admired each of Volta’s technical ability though, specifically Jon Theodore, whose virtuoso drumming I revere to this day. However, each of the members just seemed like they were showing off; none of the various elements ever came together to form a coherent song. Not to mention, Cedric Bixler-Zavala was singing to the point of exhaustion, his ungodly high tenor causing my own vocal chords to strain.

The second track, “The Widow” was even worse. What the hell was this, I thought, a hair metal ballad? I wished The Mars Volta had the same self-awareness as a band like Poison or Warrant, instead of touting themselves as some cosmic rock gods.

“L’Via L’Viaquez” used some absurd Indian-style beat, and “Miranda, The Ghost” felt like the forgotten soundtrack to a Spaghetti-western parody. As per usual, both tracks were unnecessarily long.

The final track “Cassandra Gemini” at least brought a molecule of fun onto the album. At a jaw-dropping 32 minutes, The Mars Volta were apparently trying to create the most epic track of all time, and threw in as many ideas as they could to bring them over the top. String sections! Dub instrumentals! Robot monologues! Sax solos! Needless to say, the riffs on this track were surprisingly tight, and the multiple movements blended into one another quite seamlessly. However, I had reached my limit at the 84th movement. I was hungry, cold and beginning to lose circulation on my left foot.

The album finally came to a close with an innocuous slide-guitar outro, and my entire body felt like it was reeling from a massive hangover. But I was finished, I had won their stupid game. In the furthest corner of the room, I noticed a figure sliding an unknown object beneath the door. The key to my escape? I crawled on my hands and knees across the cold, solid ground as far as my restraints would allow me. Instead of a key, there lay another LP. On its cover, a screaming severed head belching out an intense beam of light.

“De-Loused in the Comatorium.”

Fucking shit.

For more articles by Flip Gilligan, click here. To get in touch with this writer, email flip@surrealtimes.net.

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