The strange, beautiful universe of Neutral Milk Hotel's In the Aeroplane Over the Sea

Some albums feel like they exist outside of time. Not in a futuristic, ahead-of-its-era sense, but in a way that makes them feel untethered - like they could've been unearthed from some forgotten past or channeled from a fever dream. In the Aeroplane Over the Sea, Neutral Milk Hotel's 1998 masterpiece, is one of those records.

It's lo-fi, raw, and kind of messy. It's also heartbreakingly gorgeous, surreal, and deeply human. Somehow, Jeff Mangum - an eccentric recluse with a voice like a haunted saw - crafted an album that still sounds unlike anything else, even decades later.

The sound of a dream half-remembered

Describing Aeroplane to someone who's never heard it is tricky. It's folk, but not really. It's punk, but in spirit more than sound. It's got brass instruments, fuzzy acoustic guitars, and surrealist lyrics about two-headed boys floating in jars. And yet, it all just works.

The album is drenched in tape hiss, giving it a warm, lived-in feel - like an old diary with tattered pages. The production is intentionally unpolished; you can hear fingers sliding on strings, breath hitting the microphone. The whole thing feels intimate, as if Mangum is singing these songs just for you, and you happened to stumble upon him in some candle-lit attic.

Jeff Mangum: the prophet or the madman?

Then there's Mangum himself. His voice is nasal, warbling, often pushing past the point of control - but that's part of the magic. He doesn't just sing these songs; he feels them. Every note sounds like it's been ripped straight from his soul, whether he's whispering in Oh Comely or howling like a man possessed in King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 2 & 3.

Lyrically, Aeroplane is a puzzle box. Some of it seems deeply personal; other moments are cryptic and abstract. There are recurring motifs - childhood innocence, love, death, ghosts - that thread through the record like a fever dream. The most famous (and debated) influence is Anne Frank, whose story haunts the album's core. Mangum was reportedly devastated after reading The Diary of a Young Girl, and you can hear that grief bleeding through tracks like Holland, 1945.

The songs: chaos, catharsis, and everything in between

• King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1 starts things off deceptively simple - just an acoustic guitar and Mangum's voice, singing about childhood and strange love. Then out of nowhere, Part 2 & 3 explodes into a raucous, almost religious chant: "I love you Jesus Christ" - a moment so unexpected it still catches listeners off guard.
• In the Aeroplane Over the Sea is the album's bittersweet heart. It's oddly comforting, like a lullaby for the end of the world, filled with images of circles 'round the sun and bodies rising above the clouds.
• Holland, 1945 is pure catharsis - a distorted, furious burst of sound, as if Mangum is trying to scream away the unbearable sadness of history.
• Two-Headed Boy is fragile, heartbreaking, and beautifully strange, a song about... well, who really knows? But you feel it, and that's what matters.
• Oh Comely is nearly eight minutes of raw, hypnotic storytelling, recorded in one take. It's chilling, unfiltered, and utterly mesmerizing.

The legacy: how an album that almost disappeared became a cult phenomenon

Back in 1998, Aeroplane wasn't an instant classic. It got solid reviews, but it wasn't big. Neutral Milk Hotel didn't tour stadiums. They didn't even last much longer after the album came out. Mangum disappeared from the public eye, adding to the record's mystique.

Then, something strange happened. The internet - blogs, forums, early streaming sites - kept the album alive. Kids discovered it years later and passed it along like some kind of secret treasure. It became one of those "if you know, you know" records, whispered about between friends. And suddenly, it wasn't just a hidden gem - it was the hidden gem.

Today, Aeroplane is regarded as one of the greatest albums of all time. It's inspired countless musicians, from the Decemberists to Arcade Fire. It's been covered, dissected, memed, and mythologized. Yet, even after all that, it still feels deeply personal - like it belongs to you alone when you listen.

So, is it a 10/10? Almost.

If there's any reason I'd hesitate to call Aeroplane a perfect 10, it's that it's not for everyone. Some listeners will find Mangum's voice grating or the production too lo-fi. Others might struggle with the lyrics' surrealism. And that's okay - this isn't a record designed for universal appeal.

But for those who get it, Aeroplane is a revelation. It's messy, raw, haunting, and deeply moving. It's the kind of album that changes shape with you over time, revealing new layers with each listen. And that's why, even after all these years, it still feels like magic.

FINAL SCORE: 9/10