Fifteen years ago the meat Puppets were true originals – hardcore punks on acid. The passage of time has not only thickened their psychedelic stew but honed the band into the tightest trio in rock since ZZ Top. Curt Kirk-wood's guitar virtuosity is so considerable, especially in the post-punk scene, that it has occasionally been dismissed as exhibitionist. But his playing is fluid and imaginative and nearly as extravagant and ambitious as his hallucinogenic visions.

Hallucinogenic? Bassist Cris Kirk-wood's lyrics on "Inflatable" take the cake: "Find that lovely lizards fly/Try some brain goo picnic pie/Blind, no arms, no head, no leg/Fried another rotten egg."

These boys are out there (most people who venture this high into the stratosphere never come back down to earth). But while the Puppets' heads may spend a lot of time up in the cumulonimbus, their feet – and sense of rhythm – remain planted on terra firma. For every metallic riff (like "Cobbler" or the gruesome "Eyeball") on this album, there's a hummable chorus or even a delicate melody (like "Chemical Garden" or "Vampires"). What distinguishes No Joke!, the band's ninth LP, is this mellow tint, a quality it shares with 1985's highly esteemed Up on the Sun. Both LPs stretch the Puppets' emotional repertoire to new levels of tenderness while maintaining the band's trademark musical mix of chaos, precision and quirky fun.

For a while, it seemed as though the Meat Puppets were destined to be a Southwestern Sonic Youth, also noted as much for their perseverance as their popularity: They're progenitors, not pop stars. Then last year's Too High to Die spawned the radio-friendly "Backwater," an infectious, rollicking song that introduced a new generation to the weird wonders of these desert stoners. No Joke! proves this breakthrough was no accident. Their routine releases at the turn of this decade suggested that the Puppets were losing their grip. It now seems safe to say that their creativity is back at full throttle, even when the songs are slow and tender – or even when they aren't. (RS 720)

ERIC FLAUM