Mew's 2005 release And the Glass Handed Kites is known as their breakout album for a reason. While its predecessor, Frengers, contained plenty of driving, eccentric pop songs with occasional prog-rock leanings, And the Glass Handed Kites dials the ambition and scope up to eleven. I feel like prog-rock, no matter how technically well-done it is, is always vaguely embarrassing and cheesy by design. Mew know this but embrace it rather than try to work around it: they're sincere but not self-serious, a mindset which comes across in the unabashed elaborateness and bombast of their music.

It's difficult to play favorites on And the Glass Handed Kites because it's crafted as an epic symphony composed of various interrelated movements, with each song transitioning seamlessly into the next and melodic motifs recurring throughout. It's the kind of album that's better as a complete experience than parceled out in piecemeal. But some individual standouts do make themselves known, particularly "The Zookeeper's Boy," which is not only the album's most memorable track but possibly Mew's ultimate masterwork.

Where to start? There is so much going on in this song, and all of it is gloriously over the top. For bands with a less formidable vocalist, the instrumentation would stand as the center of attention, a relentlessly charging and complex interweaving of muscular guitars, gauzy synths, and booming percussion. But Jonas Bjerre refuses to allow himself to be drowned out. As light and angelic as his voice is, it is also exceedingly commanding. He never audibly strains or struggles to reach the joyous, childlike falsetto in which he spends so much of his time and shows impressive control when he glides into lower octaves, too. He uses his voice as an expressive instrument in and of itself rather than a mere vehicle for lyrics and melody, in a way reminiscent of Cocteau Twins' Elizabeth Fraser.

By the same token, the lyrics become less about meaning and more about sound and emotion. They don't grow nearly as abstract as Fraser's impressionistic babbling, but they rarely make literal sense, instead leaning toward the bizarre, occasionally silly imagery of dream and hallucination (matching the band's equally eccentric album covers). In "The Zookeeper's Boy," the chorus recalls a children's rhyme in its playful description of the titular character: "You're tall just like a giraffe/You have to climb to find its head/But if there's a glitch, you're an ostrich/You've got your head in the sand." At the same time, surrealism is occasionally off-set by more coherent strings of thought. In the first verse, Bjerre intones solemnly, "If I don't make it back from the city/Then it is only because I am drawn away." By song's end, he repeats the ominous declaration, "I could not be seen with you," presumably to the "lady" referred to throughout. Is Bjerre himself embodying the character of the zookeeper's boy, using animal metaphors to explain his trepidation to a romantic partner? Possibly, but it's also hopeless to attempt to piece it all together in a coherent way. It's better just to sit back and enjoy the ride.

And what a ride it is, from beginning to end. Even as it begins intensely, it somehow ends even more so, expertly building up into a final torrent of sound, a whirlwind of competing vocal melodies, that results in an immensely satisfying sense of release that transcends the song itself. By my count, this grand finale encompasses at least four or five different vocal lines, which complement each other in their disparity. In the final moments, when the rest of the instrumentation drops out, Bjerre's self-harmonies converge into a singular capsule of beauty that sends shivers down my spine every time.