Audiosyncratic: Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, Greatest Song

The Flaming Lips sees things as they really are. They see clouds as illusory projectiles and visual imprints from a universe that does not exist. They are so cool. They can rework Ba-ba-black-sheep into an opus that Sebastian Bach and April Boys can only wet-dream about. They are so cool. They can see past the veneer of an illusory world of mice and men; the real world is that populated by pink robots and Japanese rioting with radioactive appendages. They are so cool. What follows is the Flaming Lips' Sonata variations Op. 132 in F Minor, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, the greatest song in history, ever, thus:

"Her name is Yoshimi
she's a black belt in karate
working for the city
she has to discipline her body

'Cause she knows that
it's demanding
to defeat those evil machines
I know she can beat them

Oh Yoshimi, they don't believe me
but you won't let those robots eat me
Yoshimi, they don't believe me
but you won't let those robots defeat me

Those evil-natured robots
they're programmed to destroy us
she's gotta be strong to fight them
so she's taking lots of vitamins

'Cause she knows that
it'd be tragic
if those evil robots win
I know she can beat them

Oh Yoshimi, they don't believe me
but you won't let those robots defeat me
Yoshimi, they don't believe me
but you won't let those robots eat me

Yoshimi

'Cause she knows that
it'd be tragic
if those evil robots win
I know she can beat them

Oh Yoshimi, they don't believe me
but you won't let those robots defeat me
Yoshimi, they don't believe me
but you won't let those robots defeat me

Oh Yoshimi, they don't believe me
but you won't let those robots eat me
Yoshimi, they don't believe me
but you won't let those robots eat me

Yoshimi"

Simple melody. Hauntingly infectious buttbeats. Demonic synth burbles. Chaotic instrumental breakdowns. The greatest.

Enough said.

Dethroned, Stoned and Married to the Bone

What the F is love anyway, I quipped clutching my belongings in disarray--all of what is left of them. That was before the Biblical flood, when God brandished the whip and said: all of you are equally situated, well at least before the rich and those in the middle ransacked the groceries for their own selfish considerations. There is indeed no Section 1, Article III in the Bible. I was stripped and reduced to bare skeletons. Love does that for you, or at least all of one’s pretensions of love do that for you with the consistency of acid and the euphony of curses and invocations of ill-will. Another claims me for good and for the rest of my depleted humanity. I was reeling romantic anew and in good measure. What the F is love anyway; nobody can tell you so. I can. Knock at my door. I’ll throw you a stare and point to the moon burning in soft glow and a heightened sense of fidelity and endless reverence. I did.