Goat. You love them. Statistically, you probably do: they're a large part of the reason the good ship Norman Records still exists, what with the amount of goshdarn Goat we've sold in recent years.
Let's get one thing out of the way: they're from Sweden, and the rest of it is one of those well-publicised mysteries that isn't actually a mystery. They wear masks and pretend to not be people you can actually contact or talk to, though any band that reissues records on LPs in record stores is probably lacking in mythos at this point. Through a series of dissonant psychedelic wonders they won our hearts: the fuzzy and cheekily titled World Music challenged our preconceptions about "psychedelic" music, pointing to halmarks and then shredding them to pieces. They followed it up with Commune, a riffing, droning and often danceable record that suggested more of the same cracked euphoria.
And then Goat changed. Not content with simply being the band we knew and loved, they tried out new things: a softness in their step, a pop to their pomp. Through a series of 7"s and the new record Requiem they've rebuilt themselves into a band of bubblegum, in service to '60s bliss and tree-swaying psychedelia. It's by no means bad; rather, Goat are going through different motions of the psychedelic rock lexicon, seeing how it feels to roleplay as what are now period pieces in music. Forever will Goat be fun, however they choose to play.