Pom Pom

With its vast stylistic terrain, Pom Pom feels at times more like a singles collection than a cohesive album, which isn’t to its detriment.

It's ridiculous but oddly moving. [Nov 2014, p.62]

Pom pom would be intolerable if it didn't dare revel in the sublime ridiculousness of the cheap, tragically dated, and deeply sleazy. One simply doesn't write a throwback single as picture-perfect (or is that Polaroid-imperfect?) as "Put Your Number in My Phone" without a command of and deep affection for the classic pop form, however cynically twisted that affection may be.

He's put together a record that's as full of unforgettably kaleidoscopic melodies as it is surreal shoutouts to Dolly Parton and Kurt Cobain--pom pom is just about as beautiful of a mess as Pink himself.

While Pink appears to be currently on some kind of self-destructive PR campaign, one cannot deny that pom pom is gorgeous and silly--sometimes both at the same time.

It’s funny, melancholy, randy, touching, disgusting and deeply, deeply strange. It will baffle many--but at 17 tracks and 70 minutes, it has the feel of a magnum opus.

He deconstructs pop conventions within the first five seconds in pom pom with a devilish grin, setting the tone for an uncompromising mélange of hissed art rock that ups the ante even further than the disarmingly twisted Mature Themes.

There is unlikely to be a more distinctive album released this year, simply because so few artists would dare put out anything so gleefully deranged. [Dec 2014, p.74]

If the 17-track Pom Pom does little to un-muddy the waters, within its exploded binliner of '80s FM rock licks, novelty squelch noises and other home-recorded debris, songs of splendour lurk. [Dec 2014, p.106]

It is very easy to get lost in this record, but there is a miraculous balance that holds everything together.

Like “Too Many Cooks”, it’s discernible and then, suddenly, it’s not. But the surreal, visceral experience in itself is where the fun lies.

Like John Hughes crossed with David Lynch crossed with John Waters. Pom Pom recalls similar vibes in bursts, and at its best conjures even more striking colors and passages.

Pink's music manages to be at once glossy and murky, absurd and natural--pinging with ADD inventiveness from demented glam rock to lone-wolf disco to cartoon punk to zonked-out Sixties psych pop.

As convoluted as it may seem at first, there is merit to the deranged genius of Ariel Pink.

The 69-minute opus isn’t always accessible, but inviting, even sentimental, tracks (“Put Your Number in My Phone,” “Picture Me Gone”) balance out the more surreal, irony-laden larks (“Jell-O,” “Sexual Athletics”).

Though the way Pink zigs and zags on Pom Pom can be dazzling or confusing depending on listeners' patience, in its own way it's one of the best representations of what makes his music fascinating and occasionally frustrating.

The first half or so of pom pom proves Ariel Pink is still a pretty formidable songwriter.... From there, the structure seemingly breaks away, as Pink indulges in further left-field whims that are often more novel than gratifying.

Your best bet is to just let go and enjoy this long, schizophrenic ride through his candy-colored, drug-addled musical subconscious. [Dec 2014, p.107]

Pom pom is probably the most accessible, easy-on-the-ear and enjoyable music of his career, without any asterisks.

Pink continues down his path of willful eccentricity on pom pom, then, with little more to add to his reputation (which sadly now appears to be growing more for his haphazard attempts to be an internet-famous ‘figure’ than his musical output), yet there are moments of atmospheric and emotive brilliance that will make you wonder what kind of excellence he could achieve if he weren’t quite so in debt to the R Stevie Moore’s legend.

The all-pervasive teenage sexual obsessions on his tenth album can only come across as sweaty-palmed and distasteful. A shame, because musically Pom Pom's 17 tracks are uniquely inventive. [Dec 2014, p.96]

Pink has melody to burn, but the unevenness of Pom Pom is a stumbling block, even allowing leeway for lysergic non-linearity.

The middle third of pom pom gives itself over relentlessly to schlock and dross for the purpose of exposing deeper truths on the way.

He stays true to his reputation for unconstrained madness.

At 15 tracks, pom pom is a bit of a funhouse slog; too malevolent and toxic to really get close to.

It sounds like pop music made by someone who feels pop music is beneath him, deliberately crowding out his obvious abilities with stupid voices and noises, layering on the irony to mask his own insecurities about what he does.