I think Bong are Buddhists. I think they like Hawkwind and I think they also like Black Sabbath, they’re provably drug-addled fiends, but their glacial pace completely removes heavy metal’s implied threat. They’re clearly Buddhists, with that religion’s innate paradoxical pessimism and optimism; to listen to Bong is to accept that suffering is a part of life, and that letting go is the only path to enlightenment. Chasing Bong is like catching smoke, understanding under deep concentration will slip through your fingers like smoke. You can’t desire understanding, because desire itself is the enemy, you discover the band in that moment of abandonment, of losing oneself in between the vinyl grooves, into their singular ten-year song as phased sonic flamethrowers belch white hot heaviness, and delicate chords cut like searchlight beams though closed blinds and percussion bombs explode somewhere in the distance. Drop out of life with Bong in hand.
If Meghan Trainor is an example of the filthy fifth-stage dehydrated shit the very worst dregs of the corporate music system are capable of dredging from their bowels, Lily Wood and the Prick’s Prayer in C is the sort of thing we should play to delicate young men hanging off tall buildings surrounded by cops. If Om were struck by lightning or went through a Melvins Atlantic-years transformation they might approach the solipsistic mantric party-as-ritual. Functionally it’s a blasphemous prayer veiled in a broken love letter, it’s catchy like typhoid and has this haunting guitar line that serpently winds itself round your throat. It works as a party piece because it openly laughs at all of it. The video for the Robin Schulz remix is full of gaiety and partying but the scenes are hollow as the song talks about wrinkled hands, starving children and seas covering the land.