Heads usually become incurably blunted in order to fully capture the majesty of Animal Collective, a kinky gaggle of masked hooligans armed with high-risk electrical equipment and ominous aliases. Avey Tare, Panda Bear, Deakin, and Geologist appear to be the futuristic reincarnation of warped Beach Boys surfing the weightless waves of a galaxy far, far away. The engineers from Baltimore, who transplanted to New York City to have their wires realigned in 2000, have mercilessly kidnapped psyche-pop, demolishing then proficiently erecting it back into a slanted structure of ambiguous veracity. Strawberry Jam is a lionhearted leap into the unknown where artist and audience hold hands together with unabashed faith that something, anything, is bound to happen. And oddly enough, it usually does.
Strawberry Jam is unhealthy and interesting. The foul aroma is enticing like the rank odor of Granddaddy and Fugazi taking a shower in the splashy aftermath of Chernobyl. The extended trails of buoyant hope flicker in like the wobbly "WOW" on your college radio station turntable, stoned and paranoid to hell's end.
The sonic atrocities of this cosmic recording glisten brighter than an infrared supernova past the curved speed of My Bloody Valentine and electrocuted beyond the shelf life of the bionic disco plague launched by Public Image Limited. 1977 glam-punk shot into 2007 in a time traveling phone booth made of retarded gadgets that are capable of making Bill and Ted seem like intelligent life forces. David Bowie and David Byrne bake pies made of nitro glycerin in a room of ball jars full of liquids potent enough to incinerate everything from Hanover to Hiroshima as Strawberry Jam struts out of a ham radio on the window sill.
"Unsolved Mysteries" bubbles like a cauldron of strange. Cold heat cools the mind with a fire so permanently destructive that even Robert Stack can't solve the case. Hallucinations regurgitate a memory of the legendary London killer of 1888, Jack The Ripper, as the blade holder glides like an imaginary shadow of death down the cobblestone roads with the primal screeching of guitar chords so as to emulate the slicing up of an innocent victim.
An undignified batch as toxic as Strawberry Jam doesn't taste as fluffy as Air but is way more convoluted than Black Moth Super Rainbow. The choices of these art boys in disguise are beyond questionable as they defiantly lack serious care for the affect their loud experiments may have on unbolted ears. A divergent cult such as Animal Collective is born without remorse or guilt of any kind, which makes the music all the more malignant.