RIP Magazine review of Niandra
1994, from RIP Magazine
More info would be much appreciated
I had a dream the other night. I was in my bedroom and it was hot and stuffy, so I opened the window. A dark object immediately flew in and tumbled onto the floor. I thought it might be a rabid bat, so I approached it cautiously. But it wasn’t a bat, it was a little boy who looked up at me with the sweetest, most enchanting smile I had ever seen. He reached for me with his chubby arms, so I picked him up.
Suddenly, he began to change. His hands became gleaming indigo claws and blood spurted from his eye sockets. His teeth became razors and he slashed at my fingers. His blood intermingled with mine. I screamed – this, not life, was reality! The strange creature I cradled in my arms was the soul of John Frusciante. John Frusciante is not of this world, this society, this dimension, and he proves it with his solo record. Imagine a 2-year-old, innocent and open, with the body and responsibilities of an adult. John is that kind of being – inspired, curious and potentially dangerous.
He meanders and trips through 28 songs, some with acoustic guitar, some with electric, some with piano, all of them on four-track, with channels often sped up or somehow twisted. Titles range from the disturbing My Smile Is a Rifle to the demented Your Pussy’s Glued to a Building to various untitled tracks. It’s completely incomprehensible if you listen with a rational mind.
But “rational” and “artistic” are paralled paths that never meet. John knows this and you should, too. So listen to this album with the right side of your brain–the creative side–shut down all logic, and you’ll lose yourself in John’s comforting, bleeding ministrations. When you regain consciousness, your “normal” world will be devastated. Is this a warning? No, it’s an invitation.
—by Janiss Garza
