‘The Aeroplane Flies High’
Kerrang Magazine
1995
by Greg Kot
Thanks to mael@usa.net for the aritcles
Oh Billy. Ever since somebody realised your band were one of the biggest growth industries in the world, you’ve let them walk all over you. ‘Zero’, ‘Pisces Iscariot’, five CD’s worth of B-sides that everyone who wants already has? Jesus is it Christmas already? Jingle. Of course, it wouldn’t be bad if we didn’t like the Smashing Pumpkins.
But we do. Compared to the rest of the Class of 91, they’re streets ahead. Less demanding than Soundgarden. Less cynical than Pearl Jam. Less wasted than Alice in Chains. Thinner than the Screaming Trees.
But ‘The Aeroplane Flies High’ sucks. Not on a musical level. On a musical level, ‘The Aeroplane Flies High’, comes close to encapsulating every single emotion in the Pumpkins armoury. It ducks and dives, soars and plummets, teases and tugs. It’s just the fact that it takes five CD’s and a lavishly packaged box to do it that grates.
‘The Aeroplane Flies High’ contains every ‘new’ song put out by the Pumpkins to help promote ‘Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness’. That’s new as if in ‘previously released’. As in ‘if you’re a fan’ you already own them. There are covers versions too. Songs by The Cars (wimps), Alice Cooper (old), The Cure (goths), Blondie (over-rated) and Missing Persons (no, me neither). Five songs out of thirty three. And that’s no mentioning the booklet. Yeah. Cheers.
If you can manage the whole of Mellon Collie in one sitting, then there’s nothing here that will daunt you. There are songs that Billy writes. Songs that James writes. Songs that Billy sings. Songs that James sings. Songs that Billy and James sing. Songs that Billy and D’Arcy sing. Songs that the block sweeping up the studio sings. Songs that you can sing. Songs you’re mother can sing. ‘Ugly’, ‘Believe’, ‘Medellia of the Gray Skies’, ‘....Said Sadly’, ‘Transformer’. Ambitious, aspirational, so quintessentially them. Darling. As a body of work, ‘The Aeroplane Flies High’ is almost faultless. As a blatant exercise in corporate marketing muscle-flexing it is, unfortunate equally flawless. Nobody is forcing you to buy this tastefully retro little box that you can love and cherish and balance your ashtrays on, but Hut’s accountants and Billy Corgan’s bank manager would, like, really, really love it if you did. Alternative rock: don’t believe everything you’ve been sold.