The clue to King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard’s latest album lies in the title. A nonagon is a nine-sided polygon, the likes of which are rarely seen outside the pages of maths text books and Dungeons & Dragons game boards; an infinity is the abstract concept invented by mathematicians to solve apparently insoluble equations, and generally understood to mean a perpetual quantitative increase or decrease.
There are nine apparent songs on Nonagon Infinity, but in typical Gizzard-styled rubbery reality, this record is a trip – a wild, freaked out excursion into the sonic ether and back again, where time and space coalesce into a dynamic, poly-dimensional form.
It starts like a star shooting into space. Robot Stop is all freakish electronic noise and rhythm, some almost indecipherable robotic vocal refrains, explosions of colour and movement, punctuated with dangerously simplistic melodic refrains. With no time to breathe, it’s onto Big Fig Wasp, and Gizzard are out of deep space and into the heart of the jungle, staring at insects so freakish they’d send a strung-out William Burroughs into cognitive paroxysms. The mood calms, ever so slightly, and the scene crystallises; you can hear pictures, see sounds and feel every sonic contour ebbing and flowing. Then it’s into the Gamma Knife and it’s orderly chaos. There’s a vague hint of Wings’ Live and Let Die in there somewhere, or maybe that’s just allegory for where you might end up if you can’t get off the trip.
People-Vultures provides brief respite, followed by immersion back in Gizzard’s weird and wonderful slice of time and space. There’s a little bit of The Who and The Kinks loitering in the background of Mr Beat. Bizarrely, the Sparks-like moment morphs into a pop song, all bent melodies and sugary vocals.
And then hold on, because the freak rollercoaster is off with mad abandon in Evil Death Roll. You’re wrestled from what remains of your cerebral comfort zone, and thrust by a speeding Hawkwind lick into a chaotic sonic landscape. You grab hold of what seems like a familiar melody and find yourself edging toward the jaunty Invisible Face. Yet, all of a sudden we’re on a jazzish Stranglers trip, the kind Gizzard eventually wound up when it went on its Quarters! quadratic escapade. And then, inexplicably, it’s into an electronic pop stoner trip that leads to the breathless excitement of Wah Wah.
You roll with the moment, and then you fall into Road Train and it’s a black leather-clad journey into the outer realms of ’70s rock that only Gizzard know exist. The Zen moment is always going to come, and there it is, a familiar riff that’s carried you so far already, as comforting as it may have once seemed confronting. And then it’s all over, a cliff face finish that leaves you wondering what to do next. The answer is obvious: turn it over, and start again. It’s an infinite trip.
