Lambchop have always seemed a slightly ludicrous proposition: Orchestral snails-pace broken-heart country topped off with fuck-you smart-ass lyrics. Their most beautiful and charismatic songs thus far go on record as The Man Who Loved Beer and Soaky In The Pooper, their two previous albums as How I Quit Smoking and I Hope You're Sitting Down. You get the drift... beautiful, tragic, ensemble music, topped off with Kurt Wagner's deadpan cynicism and humour. And although it almost sounds like Smog when put into that context, there's nothing guy-and-his-guitar about Lambchop. Not in the slightest. With a membership that ranges anywhere between 8 and 12 persons (13 play on the record, although one is Mac of Superchunk/ Portastatic/ Merge recs), Lambchop have a certain 'true country' sound about them; staccato rhythms, strings, trumpets, gentle percussion, and an overdose on big-ole heart-tearing pedal steel. And many have perpetuated this status, the now requisite regurgitated description being "Nashville's most fucked-up country band". So when Lambchop slip into album #3 with the same-ole My Face Your Ass, all that seems new is the pseudo-choral backing vocals.

What comes to the fore, however, on Thriller (which is the highest selling album in music history), is Lambchop's move into, err, swing-band-pop. A band that has shown zero superfluous energy thus far -- such active desires kept in check by ambition, artistry, and their own rock-solid axiom -- is suddenly unafraid to let the good times roll. Plug into Your Fucking Sunny Day (!!), and it's the Chop in genuine carnivale mode. Normally a veritable slowed-tape-speed, valium-chewing, voice-over-guy-in-wait; here Wagner is singing! The horn section is going crazy, the guitar is jimmying vibrantly, and someone even gives a heel-kicking "woo!" to punctuate this jaunty entrance (Jacko?). It's so simple and so stupid (yet so steady), no doubt. But why haven't Lambchop done this before? Perhaps what has impelled this sudden outburst is apparent with what directly follows, as Lambchop take their ensemble-isms to the songwriting territories of an only-soul: East River Pipe's FM Cornog. The Pipe's utterly majestic Hey, Where's Your Girl (from the handsomely-covered Poor Fricky record) is no longer a suitably modest push-play-and-record pop ditty, but suddenly an expansive feast of rollicking rhythm. Someone has pushed the samba button on the casio percussion, then jacked that tempo knob way up. And Lambchop, naturally, spend their time creating enough layers to keep each member busy. There's head-bouncing guitars, bully-boy brass, and dixie-toned drumming. There's marimbas, xylophones, bongos, free-range steel and juking shuckster styles arcing out over the simple song structures like fireworks over a gentle stream. There's excitement, hyperbole, and hip-swivellin small-novelty-drink-umbrella'd glee. Rio De Janashville. Viva la Lambchop. Well maybe jus'this once... It's not all two-stepping frolic, of course; as Lambchop prove their versatility (well, at least their duality), as they take another Cornog classic -- Crawl Away -- and dim the lights. More representative of the record as a whole, and certainly of the band; this slice of East River magic is all weepy-steel romantic meanderings; and plaintive m/f vocal murmurings. Then as closer, ERP's rather-spritely Superstar In France is transformed into some super-cruisy paddle-boat-driven, finger-clickin, finger-lickin orchestral country. And after s'more deviation with title-track's feedback-draped art-rock intermission, Lambchop get back to being their own-bad-selves on The Old Fat Robin; epic, undulating, country-kid atmospherism topped off with some very blunt, but surprisingly empathetic Wagner words ("hear the tweeting in your sinuses, count the pluses and the minuses; turn frustration into sadness, say goodbye to Mr.Madness").

But with the inclusion of some Australian-only bonus cuts, culled from Lambchop's two pre-Thriller 7"s, perhaps the idea of 'pop' that inhabits Thriller sees a more permanent touch. After some Whitey Ford "homage" on Whitey; the first single that presented their return to post-Hank ep recording -- Cigarettiquette -- ushers in a little silky swing to the big Lambchop band. It's still epic, ironic, slowcore-draped countro-pop; but as Cigarettiquette meanders along you can almost hear Wagner slipping on the dancing shoes. And for the third album, a place where change is deemed a necessary requirement, it just works beautifully: Wagner letting the musical side of Lambchop be as fun-lovin as the lyrical side. And for that we can be truly thankful. Thankyou, Mr.Crabby.