Back in 2002, when this rambling, sprawling, experimental psych act broke its long-held habit of self-releasing CD-Rs and put out albums on actual labels, I imagine some folks figured Sunburned Hand of the Man was some kind of sellout. But I don’t think they’re all that concerned about how, when, and where their music gets out there, since they put out records the way most people breathe; so far this year they’ve released two albums, Zample and Anatomy, on their Manhand label, reissued a self-titled disc on Wabana, and have two more in the pipeline. When they’re on–and that’s never guaranteed–their live shows can be arty white-boy shamanism at its finest: they wear masks, use props, and blend chants, drones, and percussion marathons in slow-building freak-outs. It’s wanton, masturbatory, and beautiful–not everything that glitters in their massive oeuvre is gold, but it’s hard to find clearer proof that not all who wander are lost.
