Legendary Texan oddballs The Mars Volta explore their patience-testing outer limits on beyond-characteristically confounding ninth album Lucro Sucio; Los Ojos Del Vacio.
There’s a thin line between genius and insanity. The Mars Volta have ridden it proudly over the past quarter of a century, formulating an utterly singular brand of sparse, sunbeaten, prog-rock that’s as likely to baffle casual listeners as it is to blow devotees’ minds.
Returning from a decade-long hiatus, 2022’s self-titled eighth album and 2023’s Qué Dios Te Maldiga Mí Corazón introduced shorter song structures and more Spanish language than before, but ultimately felt like they were exploring the same kind of surrealist soundscapes as the classics. Lucro Sucio; Los Ojos Del Vacio (Dirty Profit; The Eyes Of The Void), in comparison, sees them topple over the line into arty indulgence and irksome jazz.
Historically, there has been fun to be had at TMV’s unhinged outer limits. The brain-melting intensity of batshit bangers from the back catalogue like 2006’s Meccamputecture or 2008’s Conjugal Burns has arguably never been topped. Nor has the audacity of the infamous 2005 KROQ Weenie Roast where legend has it they were responding to being knocked down the billing by Mötley Crüe with an improvised jam session featuring vocalist Cedric Bixler-Zavala tapping most of his performance out on a typewriter.
Theoretically, Lucro Sucio… is taken from the same playbook. Announced and debuted live in full in support of Deftones at Portland, Oregon’s Moda Center on February 25, its introduction suggested they’re still capable of the same spontaneity and unpredictability. Unfortunately, it’s got precious little of the fire. Early tracks Reina tormenta and Enlazan las tinieblas offer glimpses of poppy inspiration and strident saxophones, but seem to lose interest in ideas before they’re fully seen through. Later on, the likes of Alba del orate and Celaje seem washed out and tired, as though borne from a ketamine stupor rather than the acid freak-outs of old.
Beauty and brilliance do leak in, of course. The gorgeous weirdo vocals in the latter half of Mictlán (‘Tell me all the things you thought you could not say / From now until doomsday / I'll be the albatross that hangs / Let it hang’) and their echoes in The Iron Rose, for instance, feel stirringly understated, stunningly soulful. Vociferó, meanwhile, proves their ability to deliver hip-swivelling sexiness in the middle of a wave of psychedelia.
But there’s far more twiddly silliness than real substance. By the time the comparatively epic six-minute title-track rolls around at the record’s end, only the truly committed are likely to still be hanging on. Their reward is a dizzyingly incomprehensible, defiantly warbly, sax-infused sign-off that’s so far off these legends’ finest work you have to wonder if they’re taking the piss. Still, it’d be a killer soundtrack for a catwalk showcase of The Emperor’s New Clothes…
Verdict: 2/5
For fans of: At The Drive-In, Porcupine Tree, Mr. Bungle
Lucro Sucio; Los Ojos Del Vacio is out now via Clouds Hill
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