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In the Aeroplane Over the Sea

Neutral Milk Hotel (1998)

A question that haunts a lot of indie, up-and-coming artists is that of “how the hell do you get recognition?” Sure, an established artist can release mediocre music and still make millions of dollars off of it (especially in the big ‘26), but how do I do that… without the cult following? Well of course, the answer is to not make mediocre music. Instead, just make one of the best indie, lo-fi records of all time. Neutral Milk Hotel gained fame out of nowhere following the release of their 1998 sophomore album In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. It was their second of only two albums under the Neutral Milk Hotel name. Unfortunately for Jeff Mangum, the Neutral Milk Hotel frontman and singer, he didn’t actually want fame in the first place, breaking up the band after their legendary second album. He would continue to play music in several other smaller bands, however.

I think by far the most intriguing thing about this record is how they’re able to take such simple songs and turn them into truly great music. Even with a standard four-chord progression like we see on many of the songs, they’re able to bring so much emotion with the vocals and instrumentation. I think the lack of production works for this album, rather than against it, and it’s why it’s such a landmark album. This album redefined “lo-fi,” a term which is very misused in today’s day-and-age. Lo-fi is a style with minimal production, embracing flaws and turning them into the identity of the record. Some of the most famous lo-fi records include The Microphones’ The Glow, Pt. 2, the self-titled The Velvet Underground & Nico, and Enter the Wu-Tang by Wu-Tang Clan*.* 

Alright, enough rambling, let’s get into the tracks. We open with “King of Carrot Flowers, Pt. 1.” A lot of songs with “Pt.” in the title in the last couple reviews… Anyways, for the sake of the album experience, I’ll just talk about all three parts of “King of Carrot Flowers” all at once. 

In the first part, Mangum establishes a nightmarish childhood, with violent and vivid imagery told through unforgivingly straightforward lyricism. I think the most unsettling part of “King of Carrot Flowers, Pt. 1” is that melodically, it’s one of the happier and more upbeat songs you’ll hear. It’s a statement on how horrible it is that this is some people’s normal, day-to-day lives. With lyrics like:

“And your mom would drink until she was no longer speaking
And your dad would dream of all the different ways to die
Each one a little more than he could dare to try”

This is where the song gets its title: The “King of Carrot Flowers.” It’s telling a story of how our kid, young and abused, would dream of his own fantasy world, where he could be whatever he wanted. A place where he could spread his wings and fly.

Our second part is a pretty stark contrast to the first. It fades in from part one, with arpeggiating guitars and the repeating lyric of “I love you, Jesus Christ.” This represents our “King of Carrot Flowers” searching for the unconditional love that he couldn’t find at home. He transcends into understanding with the lyrics at the end of the segment.

“And on the lazy days, the dogs dissolve and drain away
The world goes and always waits
The day we are awaiting”

Then we reach the third part, with the heaviest and full alt rock riff playing beneath Mangum’s newly invigorated lyricism, a new energy behind his voice. It serves as a “everything’s going to be okay” message to the listener, no matter what they’re going through. It’s an optimistic outlook on a traumatic life, telling himself that he’ll “float until I learn how to swim” and “spit until I learn how to speak.” The entire arc of “King of Carrot Flowers” is about how no matter what your life is like, you can always turn things around. It gives the example of our little kid, traumatized by his parents, turning around his life and finding faith and love in a desolate life. It’s something that everyone needs to be able to do.

Neutral Milk Hotel’s singer, Jeff Mangum, was supposedly having issues with lucid dreaming, where he would have extremely vivid dreams about the holocaust. He said a lot of In the Aeroplane Over the Sea was about Anne Frank, and how he felt like he’d known her. He’d been extremely impacted by Frank’s journal, stating that she felt “alive” when he was reading it. This song particularly was about her. He speaks about Frank’s life as a “beautiful dream that can flash on the screen in a blink of an eye and be gone from me,” as well as the rest of the lyrics that speaks from the perspective of lovers who know their time together is limited. It’s the same feeling Mangum felt, having limited time with Frank in her diaries and in his dreams. It’s a truly horrible thought to have the looming presence of time over your head, one that I haven’t really experienced yet, but I’m sure I will. It’s so difficult to enjoy what’s happening now when you know it’s all going to be gone soon.

The fourth track, “Two-Headed Boy,” is the epitome of lo-fi. The song is a solo performance by Mangum, with a lone acoustic guitar and his haunting vocals. The song has plenty of flaws, his pitch on the high notes, the jarring, unfiltered acoustic guitar, and the lack of balancing or post-production. It really feels like Mangum just sat down with his guitar, recorded the song, and put it on the record. The song embraces its flaws and turns it into its personality. Lyrically, the “two-headed boy” refers to the isolation felt by so many, especially during the atrocities of World War II. Again, this alludes to the story of Anne Frank, comparing the isolation of having two heads to the isolation felt by Frank and others in similar positions to her. 

After a short interlude of “The Fool,” we get to “Holland, 1945.” A track about, you guessed it, Anne Frank. This time, it explores the juxtaposition between Frank’s tragic death in 1945 and Mangum’s intense feeling of romance with her. It also speaks on the cycle of memory, after one's death. He refers to reincarnation, as well as the final lyrics of the song, providing the memories of where Frank’s family and friends once lived. I really do wonder what it was like for Mangum to be in love with someone who lived fifty years earlier, to be engrossed in every little detail he could glean from her story. A little odd, yes, but an intriguing feeling nonetheless.

“And here’s where your mother sleeps
And here is the room where your brothers were born
Indentions in the sheets
Where bodies moved but don’t move anymore
It’s so sad to see the world agree
That they’d rather see their faces filled with flies
All when I’d want to keep white roses in their eyes”

There’s more to say about this record. A lot more. Unfortunately the combination of my laziness with the fact that I have a concert tomorrow is telling me not to say them, so I’ll just wrap it up now. When I first listened to In the Aeroplane Over the Sea, via a recommendation of my friends (incidentally also my bassist), I didn’t think much of it. I really liked the title track and “Holland, 1945,” but didn’t think much of anything else. It wasn’t until I really looked into the lyrics and themes that I understood what makes this record so good. It’s all in the lyrical-musical relationship, how the lyrics perfectly match the music, or how they contrast and offer two sides of the same coin. In the Aeroplane Over the Sea dives into some of the most interesting and unique themes in any album, and it does it while sounding one of the most interesting and unique albums there is. It’s all thanks to the indie nature of it, which gives the album its entire identity. I don’t think this album would have nearly the impact it did on a major record label, they would have stripped it of its beauty in exchange for a slightly nicer-sounding microphone. This album truly shows why music should lie in the hands of small artists, not the corporate giants that ruled the music industry in 1998, and still do today.

1. King of Carrot Flowers, Pt. 1: 86/100

2. King of Carrot Flowers, Pts. 2 & 3: 83/100

3. In the Aeroplane Over the Sea: 93/100

4. Two-Headed Boy: 88/10

5. The Fool: 78/100

6. Holland, 1945: 91/100

7. Communist Daughter: 82/100

8. Oh Comely: 89/100

9. Ghost: 76/100

10. [untitled]: 79/100

11. Two-Headed Boy, Pt. 2: 81/100

    Overall: 87/100

Souvlaki

Slowdive (1993)

If I had a nickel every time a British rock band released their debut album which catapulted them into the alternative rock scene, which was released in 1993 and named after a Jerky Boys episode, I’d have two nickels. Which isn’t a lot, but it’s funny it happened twice. Of course, I’m talking about Radiohead’s Pablo Honey (I mentioned them again of course), and Slowdive’s Souvlaki. Souvlaki is and continues to be a staple in the shoegaze genre, alongside My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless, Have A Nice Life’s Deathconsciousness, and Ride’s Nowhere. I find it funny how shoegaze got its name, it’s named after the fact that the guitars rely heavily on effect pedals to get their signature sounds, so shoegaze guitarists often stare at their pedalboards. 

Souvlaki, like so many of the albums I’ve reviewed so far, is at its core, about a breakup. More specifically, it explores the emotional fallout following the breakup, as well as the feeling of escapism. I’ve found that escapism is a common feeling I get from shoegaze. For instance, “A Quick One Before the Eternal Worm Devours Connecticut,” from the aforementioned Deathconsciousness, despite being wordless, gives off the feeling of escapism. I find it interesting how often this album cites cosmic objects, whether that be song titles “Souvlaki Space Station” or “When the Sun Hits,” or just the feeling of the song. Overall, Souvlaki evokes a floaty feeling through its diverse instrumentation, lyrics, and themes.

That all starts with “Alison,” the album’s opener and one of the more popular tracks on the record. “Alison” pretty explicitly paints a picture of a problematic relationship, perhaps the capital-O significant other, Alison, has a substance abuse issue, or just depressed. Yet, she doesn’t communicate her issues. She keeps them inside, waiting for them all to come out in one big burst. For whatever reason, Alison’s dark life interests the other person. Her imbalance draws him even closer. 

“Listen close and don’t be stoned
I’ll be here in the morning
‘Cause I’m just floating

Your cigarette still burns
Your messed up world will thrill me
Alison I’m lost” 

Again, “Alison” draws the imagery of floating rather blatantly, with the line “‘Cause I’m just floating.” Vibes-wise, the track does feel very ‘floaty,’ with its airy rhythm guitar, complemented by an arpeggiating lead melody. Yet, there’s a layer of melancholy beneath it. A pain deep within one's mind. It fits with what Alison must be experiencing, a deep depression masked by a cheerful, airy output, not letting anyone know what’s going on beneath the visage.

“Alison, I’ll drink your wine
And wear your clothes when we’re both high
‘Alison,’ I said, ‘We’re sinking’
But she lies,
And tells me it’s just fine
I guess she’s out there somewhere”

The weight of water is an interesting concept. While on the one hand, water makes up over 60% of human mass, meaning it makes up over 4.8 billion people, it’s really a double-edged sword. Water is literally the most important ingredient for life, allowing all of our chemical and biological processes to function. However, it’s the weight of the water that pulls you down into the ocean, and ultimately drowns the life out of you. “Machine Gun” is a metaphor for the fact that too much of anything will kill you. The music itself is a heavy, shimmering guitar riff beneath an airy vocal melody. It really does remind you of the weight of water. You can always hear the high vocal line over the chord progression, even when it’s not there. It’s the impression that too much of anything leaves on your mind.

“See you walking and I know she's my friend, again
Just the weight of the water drags me down, again
Guess I'll think of the water its my friend, oh yeah
It's just the way that the water makes me feel, again
Son of Sheba, I saw him drown
Son of yellow, I saw him drown
It's all I need yeah”

Emotional detachment can be one of the most difficult parts in anything. Even if you know and can see the flaws in a person, that doesn’t always mean you can easily stop loving them. “Souvlaki Space Station,” while on the surface being perhaps one of the grooviest songs on the record, dives into the feeling of emotional detachment. Its lyrics highlight the feeling of missing a person, yet not wanting to see them ever again. You miss the idea of them, not them. You miss loving someone, not loving them. The image of a space station often gives you the idea of leaving Earth. It’s a gateway between the world as we know it, and the rest of the observable universe. When you finally manage to emotionally detach yourself from someone, it feels like finally letting yourself experience the universe to its fullest.

“Closed doors brings open minds (and I don’t want to see you)
See you smile inside (and I don’t want to know you)
Faces and I’ve fallen (and I don’t want to hear you)
Wonder why I’m here now

In asylum
Don’t you see?
In asylum
Don’t you see?”

The feeling of the first rays of sun hitting your face on a chilly morning is a powerful one. Even more so, when you spend it with the person you love. The feeling of the last rays of the sun falling off your face as the sun sets is arguably even stronger. Especially when you spend it with the person you love. “When the Sun Hits” is a song about intense romantic connection, the feeling of meeting your “soulmate,” whatever that word means to you. Lyrically, it seems as if the person had tragically passed away. You watch, helpless, as the person that matters more than the world to you is overtaken by ambition, their goals too high for you. Yet, despite their differences in what they want to accomplish, they still love you, and you still love them. In the end, they end up flying too close to the sun. You mourn their loss. Your world is gone. The only thing left is to find them again in Heaven.

“Sweet thing, I watch you
Burn so fast it scares me

Mind games, don’t leave me
Come so far, don’t lose me
It matters where you are

As the sun hits, she’ll be waiting
With her cool things, and her heaven
Hey, hey lover, you’re still burning,
You’re his song, yeah (hey, hey)”

This is looking like my shortest review yet. Please don’t take that as a sign that this is my least favorite album so far. In fact, my length of reviews has nothing to do with how much I like the album. My favorite album of all time, In Rainbows, isn’t even close to being my longest review. If you’re wondering which one is, it’s Twin Fantasy (Face to Face). Sometimes albums are so good that I’d rather leave most of the songs up to interpretation than to spoil you with my perspective. That’s what I’m doing with this album. I’m leaving half of the songs unreviewed for you to take your own meaning from them (and I’m lazy, but that’s different).

The album’s closer, “Dagger” is the most straightforward of them all. It’s a strict departure from the band’s curated, textured guitar sound. “Dagger” features a single, unfiltered acoustic guitar, vocals, a bass, and a faint, mournful cello. The chords played by the acoustic guitar are equal parts unsettling as well as haunting, never resolving and never stopping. Lyrically, this song might be the darkest out of all of them too. It’s a song about only wanting to live for one person. One person is what separates you from a warm, cozy life and the deep, dark emptiness of space. Ultimately this is what causes so many people to have difficulty letting go. It’s a song that resolves what’s been, at its heart, a breakup album. Except the song itself never really resolves. And the breakup didn’t either.

“The world is full of noise, yeah
I hear it all the time
You know I am your dagger
You know I am your wound

I thought I heard you whisper
It happens all the time
I thought I heard you whisper
It happens all the time”

1. Alison: 94/100

2. Machine Gun: 83/100

3. 40 Days: 85/100

4. Sing: 83/100

5. Here She Comes: 79/100

6. Souvlaki Space Station: 91/100

7. When the Sun Hits: 96/100

8. Altogether: 80/100

9. Melon Yellow: 82/100

10. Dagger: 91/100

    Overall: 95/100

other reviews are in link in bio

Ágætis Byrjun

Sigur Rós (1999)

This is gonna be one of the harder albums to review. Not only because I have no idea what any of the lyrics mean, but I’ll also have to copy and paste the album name, song titles, and artist name every time I want to say them. And the fact that this album is gorgeous. In fact, don’t even read this if you haven’t listened to it. Go listen to the goddamn album, and come back when you’re done. It’s truly an indescribable experience. 

Iceland has always been on my bucket list for places to visit. It all started when I started listening to Björk, and wondering “how does anybody write a song like this?” Vespertine was one of the most beautiful albums I’d ever heard, and I wanted to see just how beautiful Iceland was. Later, when I’d dug myself down the post-rock rabbit hole, Sigur Rós was a name I heard alongside names like Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Swans, and Mogwai. With that company, how could I not check them out? After listening to the album, I was really confused. How could a country with 400,000 people have a concentration of good music this high? While I still haven’t gotten to visit Iceland, Ágætis Byrjun sure as hell gets me as close as I might ever be. Even without knowing what the lyrics mean, it sounds ethereal. It sounds like what Earth’s theme music would sound like. 

The first song, and probably the only one I can pronounce correctly (good thing I’m just writing it), is called “Intro.” I don’t think it’s an intro to the album as much as it is an intro to the second song. It’s more or less just a vocal warmup for the singer Jónsi Birgisson, with a couple elements sounding like they’re played in reverse. A great intro into the next song and for the album as a whole, but it doesn’t do too much on its own.

I think the album’s cover art, looking like an alien fetus, is extremely relevant to the album. The second song, “Svefn-G-Englar,” translates to “sleepwalkers” in English, whereas the album as a whole translates to “A good start.” In this song, we get a first look at what would turn out to be the band's signature sound: a cello-bowed guitar and Birgisson’s beautiful falsetto. This song, as well as the album as a whole, really sounds like it’s underwater. Its low-key synths and ambient noise give the oceanic sound. The ten minute track is remarkably simple when you strip it down, with a straightforward chord progression, a light 4/4 drumbeat, and whole-note synth. What really makes this song so good is the vocal delivery of the Icelandic lyrics, and the unique sound of the bowed guitar. When Birgisson sings “Tjú,” you’re transported to a different world. Post-rock albums don’t usually include vocals, but Sigur Rós manages to pull it off just magnificently. They don’t use vocals in a traditional sense. In fact, their later album ( ) is entirely in a made-up language they call “Hopelandic.” Instead of vocals conveying lyrics and words, they use it as a beautiful and melancholy instrument. “Svefn-G-Englar” will probably always be one of my favorite songs of all time.

The next song, "Starálfur," or “Staring elf,” is a lush, welcoming and warm sounding orchestral masterpiece. With a complete orchestra and an arpeggiating piano, it really builds into the ethereal, oceanic feeling built by “Svefn-G-Englar.” After Birgisson sings “Úr Stað - Sjálfur,” he sings the song’s title as the instruments fade out, leaving only a quiet acoustic guitar. Suddenly, as a masterfully orchestrated string ensemble, all the instruments flood the channels once again. The song ends with yet another lush string solo, but this time they’re the main focus instead of supporting the vocals and piano. Truly one of the best produced songs ever recorded, again supporting just how unique the album feels.

I basically said the same thing for “Svefn-G-Englar” as I did for "Starálfur," didn’t I. The truth is that I’m having a hard time finding words that can describe this music. It feels like you’ve been underwater, in a submarine in the deep ocean for years, and you’re finally visiting the surface for the first time in as long as you can remember. This music feels like the first breath of fresh air over the salty ocean breeze and rays of sun landing on your face for the first time in forever. This next song, “Flugufrelsarinn,” is a bit of a departure from that feeling. Again, it features the beautiful bowed guitar that we’ve come to expect from Sigur Rós, but it’s in a much groovier setting this time. The bassline feels much more staccato, giving the song a rhythmic structure that wasn’t present before. Birgisson’s vocals also feel more traditional. While I don’t have the translation, and I’m not sure if I want to know what they mean, it feels as if this song has a more normal usage of the vocals, that being the main focus of the song. Regardless, it’s still a masterpiece in production, somehow sounding so different from the last two songs, yet sounding similar within the vein of the album.

It’s difficult to believe that Sigur Rós only sold five hundred copies of their first album, Von. It’s an insane turnaround to not making nearly the splash they wanted to, to having worldwide success. A lot of which was thanks to Radiohead (haha, I managed to mention them again), who invited them to open for their European Kid A tour in late 2000. Despite Ágætis byrjun being their second record, Sigur Rós manages to reinvent their sound yet again with the next track, “Ný batterí” or “New Batteries.” The song was written because of a warped, bent cymbal that the drummer at the time, Ágúst Ævar Gunnarsson had found. The band loved the unique sound of it, and wrote “Ný batterí” just to feature it. The song itself is a heavy, almost grunge-like ballad, though it doesn’t start that way. At first it only features the bassline and vocals, before gradually introducing new drum and guitar parts that progressively get heavier and heavier. This song beautifully wraps up what’s been maybe my favorite four-song stretch of all time.

Honestly, I’m feeling like Will Toledo at the end of Twin Fantasy. There’s still more than half the album to go, but I can’t write more than like two sentences at a time before losing my focus because the music is just. So. Damn. Good. So instead of going track by track for the second half to the album like I usually do, I’ll just say whatever I want, okay?

I briefly touched on the album’s cover, with the alien fetus, before forgetting to refer back to it. I think the significance of the cover is because of the alien itself, it appears to be humanoid but with an oversized head and small wings on its back. It fits the album perfectly, the feeling of being different, but not overly complex as to alienate the audience. It falls in the same “accessible, but not too straightforward” category that other all-time greats like In Rainbows, The Dark Side of the Moon, and In the Court of the Crimson King fall into. To me, that’s the sweet spot of an album.

Thematically, Ágætis Byrjun seems to be, at least partially, about Iceland itself. The austere beauty, purity and uniqueness of the album are something that Iceland encapsulates too. This album feels truly one-of-a-kind, and it’s rather difficult to trace any direct influences and other artists that sound even remotely similar. I think that goes hand-in-hand with Iceland’s uniqueness, with its geological wonders. Iceland is special because of its combination of a normally frigid climate well into the Northern Hemisphere, with that of a geothermal hotspot brimming with active volcanoes. This earns the island its nickname: “The Land of Fire and Ice.”

Lyrically, the album seems to refer to childhood innocence multiple times. It refers to the nostalgia and carefree nature of a childhood free from responsibility. This is mentioned in “Flugufrelsarinn,” which translates to “Savior of the Fly.” According to the band members themselves, this is referring to childhood memories of rescuing drowning flies on the beautiful Icelandic countryside. The way they can make something so unimpactful as rescuing a few flies into an epic masterpiece on the scale of “Flugufrelsarinn” is far beyond me.

I haven’t done this album nearly enough justice through my words. My vocabulary is probably the weakest part of my writing, and my flaws are really showing with this review. Even with the entire Webster’s dictionary at disposal, I don’t think anyone could possibly describe how the album sounds or feels. I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it now, listen to the album. It’s quite possibly the most beautiful record I’ve ever heard.

1. Intro: 71/100

2. Svefn-G-Englar: 98/100

3. Starálfur: 97/100

4. Flugufrelsarinn: 90/100

5. Ný batterí: 95/100

6. Hjartað Hamast (Bamm Bamm Bamm): 84/100

7. Viðrar Vel Til Loftárása: 95/100

8. Olsen Olsen: 88/100

9. Ágætis Byrjun: 86/100

10. Avalon: 75/100

    Overall: 97/100

is that actually what is said at this part

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