The title of the new release by Philadelphia-based Asteroid No. 4 should be the first inclination that, if nothing else, you’re in for an unusual ride. For the most part, the ride is one part psychedelia, one-part folk-rock, and one-part acid trip down a river of reverb. There are a few detours, but they’re not recommended. Instead, it’s best to just turn on, tune in, and drop out for the fifty four minutes it takes to make it through These Flowers of Ours. And by the time the bong-haze clears and the album reaches its final note, you should be feeling pretty good. Maybe even ready for a snack before diving back in once more.
There’s so much to dig about Flowers that it’s impossible to process it all in just two or three listens. (I’ve been spinning it every day for about a week now and I keep coming back to it just to hear how different parts of the album sound at different times of the day and night.) Flowers is a good trip: a mental and aural one, mind you, but a trip nonetheless. The trip starts with the acoustic number “My Love,” and kicks in when Scott Vitt’s tenor (a mash between Neil Young and Roger McGuinn, only more soothing) trickles down from whatever cloud he’s on: “South of London where the roses seem to grow through the cobblestones/I met my lover at the end of the winding country road.” By the time this line is finished, the acoustic guitars are double and triple stacked to the point where it sounds like an army of brightly lit strings are beckoning you down the same road the narrator followed.
So what else lies down that eerie, yet inviting road? What witchcraft and devilry is there that awaits us? “Let It Go” is a sweet and catchy pop song with chiming electric twelve-string guitar that would fit well on any Teenage Fanclub. “She’s All I Need” sounds like The Guess Who channeling “Boys Don’t Cry”-era The Cure, complete with stupidly-sweet childlike lyrics such as, “there’s this girl/ there’s this girl/ that I’m getting to know” and “She Touched the Sky” is self-explanatory and all you would expect it to be given it’s name.
Regrettably, the journey hits a few minor bumps that are enough to cause a skinned knee or two. The band may be in desperate need of an editor since nearly all the songs that reach the five minute mark are the ones that lose focus after the first chorus. They’re probably great if you’re under the influence, but not so great otherwise. After track seven, the sing-a-along worthy Haight-Ashbury inflected title track, the album degrades into a mixed bag of tricks including far-Eastern chants and an oddly-placed spoken word interlude about conducting an exorcism. Creepy and intriguing, yes; but a bit heavy-handed and unnecessary.
The gentlemen in Asteroid No. 4 need not try so hard to convince us of their psychedelic nature. From the excess reverb all the way down to the paisley typeface on their album cover, the context clues point us in that exact direction. Maybe they felt as though we needed a guide for the first trip or two. Who knows. Maybe next time they could trust us to take their fine journey of an album on our own and enjoy the splendor of their tunes for ourselves.
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