The keynote song on Deep Purple's new recording, their first package of original songs in four years, is "Lazy Sod," which tells you a few things. One: They've earned the right to lassitude. Two: Even when imitating themselves (cf. "Lazy"), they're worth hearing. Three: When they're lying in bed, thanks to the storytelling skills of singer Ian Gillan, a real-life barkeeper, their memories of debauchery are still a blast.
Lawdy, Gillan just keeps it coming, whether he's nailing the new tail in town ("Show Me"), getting blown by a tranny with five o'clock shadow ("A Bit on the Side") or aldulterizing at heroic length ("I can't get it down!") in the pub after hours ("Old-Fangled Thing"). Gillan's vintage yarns are matched by songcraft dusted off from the cellar, with the rap of "Now You're Talking" drawing from the "Speed King" model; riffs, bridges and lyrics pasted from "Highway Star," "Living Wreck" and various Deep tracks; and when inspiration runs especially short, on "Lazy Sod," the band starts with the intro to their "Strange Kind of Woman" and shifts directly into ZZ Top's comparably themed "Tush." The best self-steal is "If I Were You," a ballad in the mode of "Sometimes I Feel Like Screaming" that concludes with a glorious orchestral coda you'll wish would never stop.
Stretching out too much, however, would have worked against the successful template established since 2013 by producer Bob Ezrin, and there ain't no reason to change it now. These renowned jammers manage to jam plenty of hi-tech mini-jams into the 13 4-minute tracks, whether via the fleet fingers of keyboardist Don Airey (a superb substitute for Jon Lord, d. 2012) or 45-year-old guitarist Simon McBride, long a member of Airey's solo band, who could never approach Ritchie Blackmore's levels of craze (who can?) but who does approach predecessor Steve Morse's levels of rocking virtuoso precision.
Funny thing is, new member and all, Deep Purple sound pretty damn relaxed. A flexible and unscreechy Gillan especially seems ready to kick back, minimize the social commentary and embrace the role of elder underachiever as he glances humorously into the looming crypt on the mock-gloomy "No Money To Burn" behind Airey's calliope organ: "Whatever gets to me first, well that's all right, it could be worse." We're along for the ride, watching the familiar scenery and appreciating the light touch of a riffer such as "Portable Door," where Gillan thanks heaven for his ability to let his mind wander in the face of tedious company. The heavy riff that sticks most comes with "Pictures of You," accompanied by a bridge effortlessly bridging into another bridge founded upon the invisible architecture of drummer Ian Paice and bassist Roger Glover, whose slapmotion drive over the past 54 years has become one of those miracles always taken for granted and rarely understood. With Ezrin at the controls, it all rocks.
As for the album title's interpretation: "Bleeding Obvious," the nervous and disposable concluding mini-epic, offers the yoda-like wisdom that "It all adds up to one." But after absorbing the rest of the record's lascivious emissions and taking a squint at the cover, let's offer a more graphic reading for "=1": "LipsDick."