The Purple Bottle (2005) – Animal Collective

Reminiscent of Buddy Holly’s “Peggy Sue,” resonant Taiko-esque drums throb out a ritualistic cadence, coupled with clattering rim-clicks that skitter across the expanse of Animal Collective’s habitat. Kaleidoscopic brushes of sonic watercolors pirouette about, suspended in an indistinct gestalt of guitars above an enchanted lake of piano echoes, coalescing into purple hues indicative of an intense adoration: Prince—he knows all about it. “The Purple Bottle” is a williwaw of nervous energy, all clickity-clack and yakitty-yak—the Beach Boys on amphetamine, quaffing a caffeinated cocktail of reverb and balderdash, Willy Wonkan wackiness and Bacchanalian abandon. A frenzied strain of erratic lyrics spit out in a loopy streams of consciousness celebrating the disorienting swirl of infatuation as the Purple Bottle is unceremoniously uncorked: a heart chock full o’ ecstasy gushing forth; wine pouring out in an elixir of dizzying intoxication; Barbara Eden coaxed out of her confines to grant her master’s wishes. Moments of repose settle in as the hullabaloo adjourns for a recess of subliminal mumbles, mews and murmurs before morphing into the playful clicks of one drumstick striking another being held out and thrown down into the snare amid a mélange of joyous whoops and exuberant exclamations, floor tom wallops, ripples of snare and a dash of cymbal. With the blithe zestfulness of a Milton Bradley™ jingle, “The Purple Bottle” waxes amorous, punch-drunk and slap-happy after being bludgeoned by the fierce charms of “a girl that likes to drink with horses,” “knows her Chinese ballet,” and “smell[s] like fruity nuts and good grains.” Veritable sonic lager on tap.

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