2000 | Music of the Gods

Though time will serve as the true test, it's highly probable that MACHINA/the machines of God will fall out as the best Pumpkins' release of their turbulent nine years. It is also a strong early contender for album of the year.

First, don't belive the critics. I've seen nothing but a spewing of mediocre reviews and am once again flabbergasted at the fickle, mass-minded reaction of the professional press. I'm thankful each week for living in Chicago and having rock critic Greg Kot writing for the Chicago Tribune. Over the years, Mr. Kot has tuned me into bands like the Jesus Lizard, Poster Children, and Jawbox, and he appears to be the sole critic to give MACHINA more than an offhand assessment. Kot aside, I've read too much drivel on the critics' personal dislike of Corgan the person and shockingly little on Corgan the musician.

And Corgan the musician does everything right here, as does the band. The tireless energy of Gish, the dreamy melody of Siamese Dream, the lush atmospherics of Adore -- it's all here, and what flowers from this reaction is something breathtakingly new. If you've read my prior reviews, you'll know I'm no screaming fan of Adore and Mellon Collie. I found both to be faulty in melody and innovation but mostly lacking unique personality. MACHINA has such a totally absorbing vision that it's like a rock symphony, a weighty musical.

For one, Chamberlin is back, and his presence behind the kit is like the fire against the fuel pack. Corgan and Iha may have all the components, but Chamberlin has the torch. He's not up to the jaw-dropping mania of Gish, but that's okay, for he's matured massively since his ho-hum performance on Mellon Collie. His technique is greatly understated, intricately designed to weave the feel of each piece; it's as though he's past having to prove himself as a drummer, and he's comfortable with finding the appropriate groove for a song, no matter what that is.

Corgan and Iha continue their progression from Adore, morphing their guitars into sound machines, bringing forth bolts of electric static and mournful, underwater sounds. The acid scratch of the opening of "The Everlasting Gaze" contrasts the long, weeping notes of "This Time." And what's beautiful is that none of it feels like showing off. It's all so obviously there to bolster Corgan's songwriting. This is a deeply emotional album, more moving that anything past. Walks in the rain, destined love, lost love, the uniting power of music, the pitfalls of fame -- Corgan rakes it all over the coals, and he does it with touching imagery.

The songs are incredibly inventive. Though they hug closer to the verse-chorus structures of the latter releases, the arrangements here display the genius of their first two releases. From Chamberlin's techno-snap drumming to the angelic guitars to Corgan's perfect singing, the songs hold up to limitless repeat listens. This is by far Corgan's best vocal work, too, as he moves from sweet to downright menacing. He sings of the foils of love and you feel his pain, then he screeches about not being dead and you want to tear down the house with him. His nasal whine hovers just near irritating in spots, but it achieves the intended fury, as in the vocal break almost three minutes into "The Everlasting Gaze:" as Corgan winds up his rant about his fickle god, and the band slams back in, you actually feel the energy ramp up. This Corgan does with a subtle tweak of his voice. It's this sort of attention to detail that is fantastically engaging, and there is a lot of detail to absorb.

One more thing: they hit over ninety percent here, which is unusual for a Pumpkin's release. Only one track wears quickly: The Crying Tree of Mercury. It lacks the density of the remainder, but it's a minor complaint. MACHINA is a surprising pop masterpiece. They're not dead, yet. Far from it.