Additional personnel: Michelle Anderson (Uilleann pipes); Marisa Bissinger (saxophone, flugelhorn); Rick Benejamin (trombone); Laura Carter (zanzithophone); Robert Schneider (piano, organ, bass, background vocals).

Perhaps best likened to a marching band on an acid trip, Neutral Milk Hotel's second album is another quixotic sonic parade; lo-fi yet lush, impenetrable yet wholly accessible, In the Aeroplane Over the Sea is either the work of a genius or an utter crackpot, with the truth probably falling somewhere in between. Again teaming with producer Robert Schneider, Jeff Mangum invests the material here with new maturity and clarity; while the songs run continuously together, as they did on the previous On Avery Island, there is a much clearer sense of shifting dynamics from track to track, with a greater emphasis on structure and texture. Mangum's vocals are far more emotive as well; whether caught in the rush of spiritual epiphany ("The King of Carrot Flowers Pts. Two and Three") or in the grip of sexual anxiety ("Two-Headed Boy"), he sings with a new fervor, composed in equal measure of ecstasy and anguish. However, as his musical concepts continue to come into sharper focus, one hopes his stream-of-consciousness lyrical ideas soon begin to do the same; while Mangum spins his words with the rapid-fire intensity of a young Dylan, the songs are far too cryptic and abstract to fully sink in -- In the Aeroplane Over the Sea is undoubtedly a major statement, but just what it's saying is anyone's guess. ~ Jason Ankeny

Neutral Milk Hotel leader Jeff Mangum is a popster who hears interstellar sounds as natural ingredients of his "pop." He was weaned with the inevitable four-track in his bedroom, schooled on a record collection stacked with John Cage and Captain Beefheart as well as the Beatles and the Kinks. There is an instant emotional intensity to Neutral Milk's music, and the seeds that were sewn on '96's lo-fi masterpiece ON AVERY ISLAND, bear an evolving fruit on IN THE AEROPLANE OVER THE SEA.

Mangum's psych-folk songwriter musings dominate the album's landscape. Confusion streams out in hallucinatory phrases, trying to outrace a manic acoustic guitar, which in turn propels a band whose general sound is a four-track, punked-up version of Tom Waits' RAIN DOGS outfit. Brass-heavy instrumentals akin to ambient, bayou funeral dirges skitter by. At times, sunny pop emerges from the busy squall , as on the title track. Occasionally, the squall itself latches onto a melody, exploding with Flaming Lips-like ferocity. All of it suggests that while Neutral Milk's grasp on inherent truths (musical and otherwise) is wholly unstable, its quest for them is a wonder to behold.