This is the point in the Public Image Ltd. timeline where John Lydon decided either a) to completely forgo his punk rock roots and succumb to the temptations of pop radio, pushing his musical pallette into new and exciting places b) chorus pedals are really friggin’ cool. The end result can be a mixed bag. There are a couple great songs like “Seattle” and “The Body,” but there are also a few not-so-great ones. Granted, there’s nothing as bad as, say, A Flock of Seagulls’ pop aspirations on Dreams Come True, but, then again, can anything truly be worse than that?

Sometime between The Flowers of Romance and this record P.I.L. imploded. P.I.L. had finally shed the noise and experimentation and took a turn for the pop. I guess it’s understandable if fans of the original line-up ditched the band at this point, but, despite its radio-friendly aspirations, this album seriously rocks. Sure the abundance of raging solos aligns this record the band’s hair metal counterparts, but Lydon’s vocal style and the overall arrangements keep the punk rock vibe alive.

As if annoying music couldn’t possibly get more annoying (and by annoying I mean awesome) P.I.L. followed up Metal Box (a.k.a. Second Edition) with The Flowers of Romance. While the former relied on ambiance and nearly-danceable bass grooves, this record is sparse and tribal. Tribal is my code word for “has lots of pounding drums.” Martin Atkins’s signature drumming on this record is legendary. It’s not that technically tricky like, say, the drumming you’d find on a Rush album (or a Ginny Tiu Revue album for that matter), but it is never a straightforward punk rock beat. Gone is Keith Levine’s guitar noodling. It has been replaced with synthesizers, violin screeching and whatever noise maker happened to be around the studio that day. “Noise maker” also includes John Lydon, whose screeching is in top form here.

I always liked P.I.L. much, much more than The Sex Pistols. I’ll concede that most of this record is just self-indulgent noise making, but it works for me. I love the driving bass lines which, to me, are very reminiscent of dub reggae. The guitar is all over the place and noodley but, in the end, it just creates a nice layer of ambient noise over which Lydon can scream, chant and holler. This disc is the one to put on if you want to annoy your square neighbors… or any neighbor for that matter.

I think it’s quite fitting that, in my CD shelf, this disc sits right night to its brother in crapdom, Primus. I’m not sure what possessed me to buy this. Aside from the ultra-catchy hit “500 Miles,” this is a collection of boring Scottish tavern shanteys—the type of stuff white people looking to connect with the “old country” will pretend to like. Bleeech.

Conceptually, Primus is a great band. Weird humorous lyrics, bizarre singing, complicated song structures and expert playing all around. In reality they are just boring to me. The guitar noodles around and the songs just go on forever. This is one of those records that has one memorable hit, “Jerry Was a Race Car Driver,” but the rest of the tracks are nowhere near as good.