"THEY'RE LIKE AN INDIE STYX."

This is what my friend tells me. In the middle of a song, he leans over and yells this in my ear.

The Flaming Lips are an indie Styx.

Watching them at the Showbox--the beautifully remodeled Showbox--I realize I no longer love the Flaming Lips. I love their new record. I love their past records. But I can't love the band, not anymore.

Watching Wayne Coyne up there on stage, singing with one hand over his heart, the other holding his ear piece in place, I actually feel embarrassed. The video projection, the light show, Wayne tossing glitter into the crowd--all of a sudden my adoration for the band leaves me.

Why can't they just shut up and play those pretty songs I like so much? Why can't they stop fucking around?

This was after the four opening bands. After the video snippets, and Wayne's lecture on what the evening represented. After the band handed out small AM/FM Walkmans you were supposed to listen to during the show, in order to get the full experience. After their previous parking lot shows, boombox experiments, and simultaneous four-CD ambient nonsense.

Plus, this was after I was already bored and tired.

The Music Against Brain Degeneration Revue. That was the excuse for the evening. An ironic Lollapalooza, of sorts. An over-educated Lilith Fair (with only one female in the line-up). There was a "First International" before the title--a threat. Evidently, this is something they want to do year after year.

First was IQU. They were nice.

Next was Sonic Boom--some chump from the Spacemen 3 making noise. Not music, noise.

Then came Robyn Hitchcock. He was fine.

Then Sebadoh, who fared best that evening, despite the fact that they didn't seem like they wanted to be there.

Then, finally, the Flaming Lips. At 12:15 or so, after we'd sat through all the hoopla, all the pretentious showiness, the Lips took the stage and started to play. Then they stopped. It was a sound check, Wayne told us. Most bands do sound check during the afternoon; then, when the club is filled with people, they sound like shit. But not the Lips. They like to do a second sound check when the club is full.

They like to tease their fans.

Then Wayne instructed the crowd to cheer before they came on for their proper set. To really whoop it up, get some sort of energy going before they played. So they left the stage and we all cheered like trained chimps.

We clapped.

We stomped our feet.

We hollered.

Then the Lips played. They opened with "Race for the Prize," the first track off their new album. A video projection of David Letterman said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Flaming Lips!" and Wayne clobbered a massive gong. The drummer appeared as a projected image on the screen, intercut with Wayne's massive head and a variety of stock footage. Lights swept over the audience.

And my friend turned to me and called them an indie Styx, and I agreed.

If the evening was meant as a joke, it didn't work.

The only other time I had seen the Flaming Lips live was at Moe a couple years ago. The stage was decked out with Christmas lights. It was so simple and beautiful. They just played songs, with very little hoopla.

Now they have lighting rigs and a video screen, and as I mentioned before, a giant gong.

The spectacular First International Music Against Degeneration Revue!

Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat!

Just weeks ago I wrote a review of The Soft Bulletin and called it the best Flaming Lips record to date. Now I want them to put the chamber music and drum machines and samplings away. Now I want Transmissions from the Satellite Heart.

I want "Slow Nerve Action."

"She Don't Use Jelly."

I want "Superhumans," not "Superman."

I want them to play music, not produce an event.

Live, the songs from The Soft Bulletin crumble around the band. The pretentiousness oozes from every speaker. With the video and light show, the songs are so completely transparent they almost don't exist. But the few older songs they played that Friday night were like pockets of heaven. They showed the band that everyone came to see. The band that played Moe with just Christmas lights, before all the fucking around on the side.

As I watched Wayne up there, I realized he's suddenly become the new Michael Stipe. Pressing his hand to his heart, singing pretty songs so overblown with onstage showiness, he is a diva.

The diva singer for the indie Styx.