Photo by Matt Riley

The Claypool Lennon Delirium, Britt Fest, Jacksonville, OR- 7/22

Full disclosure, I am a Les Claypool fan. When I first saw him play Pink Floyd’s Animals, at the Great American Music Hall with his Fearless Flying Frog Brigade, 16 years ago, I was hooked. Even the projects he does that I don’t like as much, I still like. More importantly, I am a fan of good music; and a man who can morph the digited end of an arm into a multifaceted instrument of sound when laid upon thick strings, earns a platform in the music hall of my brain. That said, The Lennon Claypool Delirium was an interesting mix of Claypool’s previous projects, with a psychedelic Sergeant Pepper’s submarine holding his molten bass within permeable walls, trying not to burst.

The duo introduced themselves, after a song or two, with Les declaring, “Hello people of Jacksonville…and surrounding areas…I’m Edward Van Halen.” Sean Lennon followed with, “I’m Neil Diamond.” They continued into the abyss without clarification. A magician on the keys, with top hat to match, went by the name: Pete and Repeat this evening. According to Claypool, he joined the band the previous night and said: Jacksonville, Oregon…and surrounding areas…that’s where I’ll really show them what I can do. “Well,” Les coaxed, “This is Jacksonville…and surrounding areas…show them what you can do.” The abstract freak stew overflowed to each musician on stage as the magician brushed unseen dandruff off the low-end keys, twiddled the top, then swept every nook and cranny for a full makeover.

The majority of songs were from their new album, Monolith of Phobos, with a few covers from their personal musical repertoire, as well as Pink Floyd’s “Astronomy Domine” and the Beatles’ “Tomorrow Never Knows.” Sean Lennon played a skillful guitar and had a sweet, soaring vocal flavor and creative temperament, that added credibility to his surname. The music went spelunking through eye-dripping tunnels that smiled through teeth carved on the fly, made entirely of neural nebula highways—with a carpool lane for roller skates.

Claypool seemed the leader of this weird excursion. He plucked fast individual bass strings along the instrument’s arm and spanked deep thumb-cupped slaps over its heart. A revved bass line drove record-scratch, race start challenges underwater. He tapped a thin upright bass with morse code, then sliced a bow across it with precise scalpel incisions, and a golfer’s follow-through, that cut the air into abstract geometric shapes. These puzzle chunks of raw sliced ether fell to the ground, clattering around stage where the sweeping breeze from the keys brushed them into the lap of a full outfitted unicorn—who stood at the foot of the stage piecing the atmospheric pieces into a lovely landscape. As Claypool noted, “You know it’s going to be a good show when you have a unicorn in front of you.”

Singing into effects microphones, these two men blurred abstract talents into the mosaic of battling sounds. The battle was fierce. Indian flavored instrumental rhythms opened a window, and a musical interpretation of the eerie boat ride, in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, walked through it. Helium-bloated vocals, floated tumbled rocks in giant metal bowls through a death tunnel to a Sunday dinner rabbit hole. A driving, drum force hammered an artillery of candied nails, up through the earth to sprout armies of alert dreamers. Tourette syndrome bass explosions goosed unsuspecting pockets of otherwise innocuous air. Each musician held their own, played their part well and met the distorted collaborated stomping grounds with precise measure.

With a superb exit, Claypool simply walked off stage, with no pomp or notice, leaving bass loops playing in his absent wake. Lennon followed suit, laying guitar loops, he tipped his hat and he, and the magician, walked silently off stage. This left the drummer, Paulo Baldi, a lone man amidst a band of looped sounds, playing hard. He too, eventually surrendered to the music, tipped his hat, walked away and let the music speak its unaltered, solo language from an empty stage. The men returned for an encore that began with a bass ripple whale tale, and cut sharply into Primus’ Southbound Pachyderm. The night’s odd mix of sounds shook hands, patted one another on the back, and began a trek to the far corners of their varying origins to share the imprints of their unlikely encounter with harmonies that could inspire an otherwise bland mind to color.