Some years ago I read an anecdote about William Bennett from Whitehouse. In some interview, he talked about how when he was young, he would decide which records to buy just by reading descriptions and reviews of them. Naturally, he would gravitate towards ones that generated strong reactions in the people that wrote about them, especially when they were described as “weird” or “extreme” or even “bad.” Almost every single album he ever picked out like this was a let-down. To this point, when asked how Throbbing Gristle had inspired Whitehouse, Bennett said that he was more inspired by the things he read about TG than the music itself, which was ultimately just another disappointment. According to this anecdote, the only album which actually lived up to its description was Fly by Yoko Ono. Which, to me, makes a lot of sense.
Fly is a p-funk album played by mutants. Fly is an industrial album made by sentient fruit mold. Fly is a form of psychological punishment propagated by the CIA to discredit leftist politics. Fly is the agonizing death-scream of the 60s and the ripe placenta from which so much else would spawn. Fly makes being crushed to death feel groovy. Fly makes you feel like the afterbirth that, by mistake, you never were but should have been. This is all to say that Fly is really great.
Contrary to the opinions of nearly everyone, Yoko Ono’s vocals are the best part of everything they are involved in. Her vocal style is unique. People often compare it to dolphins, but dolphins don’t have as much range, nor are their vocalizations capable of expressing Yoko’s emotional range. Really, Yoko’s voice is more like tinnitus. Once you’ve heard it, you never have any hope of escaping from it. It sticks with you, infects you. You can either fight against it or accept the reality that it is beautiful and whole.
Besides Yoko singing, the best part of the album is the slow degradation from the first track to the last. The album starts with a fairly-traditional song in “Midsummer New York” - a sick permutation of fifties rock riffs - and then track by track the infection takes over. Reason and sense give way to lesion and stench. I always think about how Varg Vikernes described the Burzum albums as a kind of spell, that you were supposed to listen to them from end-to-end as you fell asleep and it would take you on a profound spiritual, metaphysical journey. Fly is kind of the same way. By the time you reach the title track, you are in a different place than where you started. You realize you’re breathing manually. That your mouth smells strange. That you’re not sure if your experience of the present moment is actually merely some memory of your future self, or even if you have a self to begin with. I’ve never gotten too into it, but when I read about the supposed mind states that people describe entering from Transcendental Meditation, to me it’s basically the same thing that I get from listening to Fly. Whether it would have the same effect on anyone else I’m not sure, but if you want to escape the Suffocating Rubber Clown Suit of Negativity, I think it’s worth a shot. Even if you don’t, really.
…Don’t worry don’t worry don’t worry don’t worry…