King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard

I have not covered a King Gizz album in quite some time. Looks like it’s been since 2019 since I took a crack at ‘em, and in the interim the band has followed their muses between metal and synth and become the kind of act that can fill Red Rocks three times over. Didn’t quite see that coming back in 2013 or so when they were first on my radar, but I love their arc. The band has landed at album number 26, the kind of hallmark that’s normally reserved for a band that’s been decades into their deal. The band hits the number just a dozen years into their tenure and, to be honest, they’re still building steam as they embrace the ‘70s rollick of Flight b741.

With a dose of Cosmic Americana in their heart and a ‘70s glam glow-up on the rise, the band finds their compass pointed towards Little Feat but tipping into T. Rex and Slade. The record captures the band at their most lascivious, though they aim their leer away from carnal concerns and towards the lip of societal slip. It’s a pelvic pump of an LP that’s more concerned with environmental collapse than the sweat and swagger would let on. The band tackled similar systems on Infest The Rats’ Nest, but somehow the pill goes down easier with a bit of boogie in the boot than with a serrated edge. The Gizz has been glossed in synth, minced through microtones, and splattered across the official bootleg pipeline, but they haven’t sounded like they’re having this much fun in a few years, and I’m fully here for it. The album was billed as a classic return to form, and it delivers on that promise and much more. Long live the Lizard — chameleons of the cosmic chrome. Now somebody book me a Gizz/Bures Band tour of mid-sized venues that leaves the stadiums stranded.

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