Viagra Boys crack open their new self-titled album with a howl and a stomp, hurling us right back into the gaping maw of their signature cartoon hellscape—a world as grotesque as it is musically precise, as absurd as it is emotionally intelligent. “Man Made of Meat” sets the tone: part Hieronymus Bosch, part Ren & Stimpy “gross-up” close-up, and, crucially, all in good fun. It’s a gleefully unhinged feat of epic silliness, just as willfully brutal as carefully constructed, and lucky for us, it’s just the beginning.
Since forming in Stockholm a decade ago, Viagra Boys have steadily deepened and distorted their amphibian- and shrimp-laden world across three previous albums: the raw snarl of Street Worms, the spiraling experimentation of Welfare Jazz, and the sharp, occasionally nihilistic insight of Cave World.
This self-titled effort feels like the culmination. It’s intellectual, but only in a profoundly unserious way. It’s a world where hot tub accidents are a vaguely defined but absolute liability, everyone fantasizes about working at a factory, and “perfect health” is always just a few steps—or sacrificial goats—away.
Put another way, it’s absurd only in language, not in spirit, because compared to the desolate terrain we call “collective reality”, it’s brighter, stranger, and almost always less mean.
The absurdity finds its most vivid vessels in tracks like “Bog Body”, which barrels forward in a pressurized tumble, starring a 2,000-year-old mummified cadaver so exquisitely preserved it’s making your girlfriend jealous. In “Pyramid of Health”, a little green worm offers cryptic guidance that may or may not be divine. Meanwhile, “Store Policy” delivers a panicked rant involving “a bucket, some lube, and some screws,” powered by psychedelic, didgeridoo-esque bleating and held together by sheer rhythmic force.
There’s plenty to laugh at, but Viagr Aboys is far from an elaborate joke, especially regarding its musicality. Anyone moved by rock music knows technical skill isn’t required for greatness. However, without it, this band wouldn’t be able to conjure such sprawling, grotesque chaos without letting it collapse. The “chaos” here is intentional. The execution is razor-sharp.
Somehow, amid all that kaleidoscopic instrumentation, vocalist Sebastian Murphy never gets lost. Instead, he sets the arena ablaze, clearing the way for his gravity-defying stunts, pulled off with sheer friction, centrifugal force, and emotional volatility. He’s not just a frontman; he’s a multitude. The record’s emotional depth depends on his ability to shapeshift, toggling between caricature and sincerity until the line between them dissolves.
Murphy speaks the language of confrontational autodidacts and erratic sentimentalists. His lyrics veer from maniacal monologue to bashful romanticism, from dadaist spirals to hard-won emotional truths. Humor is his preferred tool, but not the destination. Absurdity isn’t just performance; it’s a raw, cerebral, and painfully human art.
That’s always been the “surprising” undercurrent for the group. At first, it feels like a contradiction. How could a group with a name like that make music that is so smart? Or even more curiously, so tender?
However, the deeper you wade into their world, the clearer it becomes: the tenderness is the point. Beneath the busted electronics, grunts, and gags is a shaky yearning. It isn’t just about being funny or filthy. It’s about trying to understand what can’t be understood.
Fittingly, after nine tracks of thrashing and roaring, the album closes with “River King”, a relieved exhalation built from bare piano, reedy clarinet, and the haunted hoot of an oboe—each note bending toward something tender and uncertain. At first, its meaning is murky. Then it sharpens: this, dear reader, is a love song.
Murphy’s plainspoken lines about bad Chinese food on a Monday night—”Tastes like sour meat / But I’ve had worse, so I don’t mind”—land with unexpected grace. They turn the dull magic of an ordinary evening into something quietly revelatory, starkly contrasting the acidic nihilism we might have expected to close things out.
We should have known better. For all their grotesque spectacle—and whether they mean for us to see it or not—Viagra Boys are far too emotionally attuned to settle for cheap bitterness. Instead, on Viagr Aboys, beneath the grime, the gags, and the chaos, they’re not giving up on meaning. They’re daring us to find it where we least expect it.
