That said, the album is frequently funny, on top of creepy - not in a just-kidding-about-all-this kind of way, but in that peculiarly Lynchian manner in which a strong streak of absurdism has always offset the unsettling. Maybe, with all these tense and nerve-racking sounds, Lynch just intends to create more demand for the calming cure that TM is meant to offer. If you’ve ommm-ed your way to a state of higher consciousness, it’s just the record to bring yourself back down to earth, though it might overcompensate by taking you to the third or fourth rung of the underworld.
Lynch’s first solo album, “Crazy Clown Time,” doesn’t sound very Maharishi-approved, either.
Is there any major artist whose entire body of work has seemed more ominous, more filled with sinister intonations, less meditative? Mantras don’t come much scarier than “fire walk with me.”
Sometimes it’s hard not to think that David Lynch’s fixation on transcendental meditation isn’t a joke the filmmaker is playing on us.
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