discussed with Drozd and guest vocalist,
country singer Kacey Musgraves. The
song tilts against the lilting verses of Pink
Floyd’s “Us and Them” while borrowing
the shimmering soft-rock acoustic guitars
of Seals and Crofts and adding drum fills
from the Beatles’ “Don’t Bring Me Down.”
“You ‘n’ Me Sellin’ Weed” is the story of a
boy and girl committed to watching each
other’s backs, while dreaming of someday
escaping from the inherent peril of their
circumstances and finding a better life.
“Mother Please Don’t Be Sad” is the heart
of the album’s intertwined set of character
studies, and is related to an often-told true
story from Coyne’s younger days when
his fast-food shift at Long John Silver’s
was robbed at gunpoint. Here, he imagines
that he didn’t make it out alive, and
reaches out from the beyond to console his
justifiably worried mother. “Remember to
let the dogs outside, because I won’t be
there tonight,” he sings. Coyne’s ghost
assures his mother that he’ll be okay in
paradise, because the “gatekeeper” gives
special dispensation to those who “die
when we’re high.” The song is driven by
thrumming piano and swooning strings,
with a stately French horn intro. The
sound blends George Martin and Burt
Bacharach-styled production, with faint
echoes of the Abbey Road medley’s “You
Never Give Me Your Money.” Even the
fantasy of “Dinosaurs on the Mountain” is
swathed in melancholy. “It’d be fun to see
them playing on the mountains,” sings
Coyne, only to realize it’s futile a dream.
“They won’t make it, even if they try,” he
adds. The song is cast in sepia-toned nostalgia
for childhood wonder. “Mother I’ve
Taken LSD” takes that sense of lost innocence
further. “I thought it would set me
free, but now I think it’s changed me,”
sings Coyne’s character, whose newly
opened third eye has revealed the sadness
in the wider world and tragedies that have
altered the lives of close friends. The
child’s ache is echoed by mournful strings,
recalling Spector’s work with John
Lennon. American Head is loaded with
immersive mid-tempo soundscapes and
the weightless feeling of songs like David
Bowie’s “Space Oddity” or Pink Floyd’s
“Comfortably Numb,” without the
charged energy of previous Lips rockers
like “The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song” or “She
Don’t Use Jelly.” “Assassins of Youth”
comes closest (at least momentarily), with
an insistent acoustic guitar during the first
verse that is reminiscent of Electronic’s
“Get the Message” and an orchestral-electropop
hybrid as the song nears its end.
Initiated as a reflection upon school shootings,
the song expands to something more
universal, mourning all who are irrevocably
robbed of their innocence. The ethereal
“God and the Policeman” paints the
portrait of someone on the run from both
the authorities and his own conscience,
despite doing only what he had to do. The
evocative song features a duet between
Coyne and Kacey Musgraves. The album’s
comedown coda breaks the over-arching
tone of American Head with the heartfelt
and minimalist “My Religion is You.”
Without judgment, Coyne encourages others
to embrace inner peace where they can
find it. “If being a Christian is your thing,
then own it friend,” he sings. “Don’t
phone it in.” As for himself, Coyne places
faith in a someone that he can see and
touch, like a boy’s trust unwavering trust
in his beloved mother.
The American Head overflows with
hopes, heartbroken memories, love and
tragedy. It’s a romanticized reflection of
everyday life, drawn from the mundane
yet surreal world of Wayne Coyne and his
musical family. Although Coyne sings
about lost innocence, the sound of the
Flaming Lips remains in an envious and
glorious state of arrested development,
brimming with wide-eyed wonder that
frames the smallest stories with cinematic
scale and outsized, open-hearted emotion.
– Jeff Elbel
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30 illinoisentertainer.com september 2020