If there’s one thing Goat haven’t done in the six years since last album Requiem was released, it’s become any easier to pigeonhole. The mysterious Swedes still sound less Swedish than any other Swedish band ever, twisting plundered sonics from every part of the world apart from their own into wild, ritualistic shapes.
Chukua Pesa sounds like the sort of thing Robert Plant might have brought back with him from a successful field trip to the Malian desert. Under No Nation struts like Fela Kuti before flipping blithely into free-jazz skronk via Blondie.
Do The Dance is Burundi Black meets Adam Ant meets Daisy Chainsaw meets Tom Tom Club. Goatmilk is Curtis Mayfield produced by Lee Perry until it’s something else altogether; eventually it’s Jethro Tull playing Afro-jazz.
Apegoat is possibly made from bees. And Blow The Horns manages all of the above until Thin Lizzy-ish twin guitars arrive to herald the fade. It’s as confusing as hell, but it’s also thrilling, occasionally daft, and deliriously, gloriously imaginative. Goat’s best album.
