LOS ANGELES, CA- I’ll be honest right up front: I didn’t get King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard when I first heard them. The name alone felt like a tongue-in-cheek dare… too long, too absurd. And then there was the music. My first exposure was… to the best of my recollection… Murder of the Universe (2017), a spoken-word heavy concept album broken into three chapters of dystopian storytelling. Narrator Leah Senior spins a surreal saga of beasts, cyborgs, and apocalyptic collapse over the band’s dense psych-rock backdrops. It was ambitious, sure, but to me it felt less like an album and more like being read a bizarre sci-fi audiobook set to noise. At the time, I just couldn’t connect.
So I shrugged them off. My friends kept raving, but I figured maybe this was just one of those cult bands that wasn’t for me. I wrote them off as overly heady, too niche, and maybe even a little gimmicky.
What pulled me back into their orbit years later wasn’t a song at all, but a statement. Earlier this year, King Gizzard made headlines for yanking their entire catalog from Spotify. Their reasoning? Spotify’s CEO Daniel Ek has been investing in companies manufacturing AI-driven military drones.
As much as I rely on Spotify… and as much as it’s embedded in the way most of us consume music… it’s hard to ignore the moral weight of that revelation. To see a band stand up and say, “No, we don’t want our art tied to that,” impressed the hell out of me.
It wasn’t just a symbolic move either. For a band as prolific and beloved as King Gizzard, removing their music from the biggest streaming platform on earth is no small sacrifice. Respect went up several notches in my book. And with that respect came curiosity: what had I been missing all these years?
So I dove back into their catalog with fresh ears. And almost immediately I realized that my initial dismissal had been short-sighted. Their repertoire isn’t just expansive… it’s staggering. Thrash, jazz, microtonal experiments, prog epics, gentle folk, electronic detours—there’s no neat box to put them in. Consistency isn’t the point; it’s the breadth, the daring, the willingness to veer into new territories and trust their audience to follow. I had misjudged them.
Murder of the Universe might’ve been the wrong door to walk through at first. It’s one of their most divisive records for a reason. But digging deeper, I found albums that felt more like gateways.
Take Nonagon Infinity (2016), their relentless psych-rock opus structured as an infinite loop. Or Flying Microtonal Banana (2017), where they dive into hypnotic grooves using microtonal tunings. Or the complete left turn of Paper Mâché Dream Balloon (2015), an acoustic, pastoral record full of whimsy. Then there’s Infest the Rats’ Nest (2019), where they double down on thrash metal with surprising authenticity. And most recently, Ice, Death, Planets, Lungs, Mushrooms and Lava (2022), a jam-driven cosmic swirl that critics loved.
That’s the beauty of King Gizzard: if one album doesn’t work for you, another will. They’re too restless, too ambitious, to ever stay locked into a single identity.
Fast forward to August 10th, 2025, and I’m sitting under the stars at the Hollywood Bowl. The setting is almost surreal: this band I once dismissed is now sharing the stage with the Hollywood Bowl Orchestra, conducted by Sarah Hicks. It’s part of their Phantom Island tour, a project that blends their newest material with sweeping orchestral arrangements.
From the first notes, the sheer audacity of it all was undeniable. A band known for careening jams and DIY psych-rock was now being elevated by an entire orchestra, their chaotic energy woven into something grand and cinematic. Strings underscored riffs, brass punched up crescendos, and flutes danced around their melodies. The Hollywood Bowl, with its cavernous expanse, suddenly felt like the perfect place for this experiment: massive, communal, almost mythic.
The setlist drew from across their catalog, a testament to just how much ground they’ve covered as a band. They opened with Phantom Island before diving into deep cuts and fan favorites like Lonely Cosmos, Sea of Doubt, and the sprawling The River. The orchestra added weight and drama to every transition, but the band’s core looseness never disappeared.
Midway through, they tore into Crumbling Castle, which they then dedicated to Los Angeles. Not long after, Stu Mackenzie took a jab at Elon Musk—calling him a “fucking idiot”—before launching into Mars for the Rich, with the biting declaration: “We decided all billionaires should go to jail.” It was one of those moments where humor, politics, and music all collided perfectly.
Later highlights included Iron Lung, Dragon, and an extended jam on The Dripping Tap teased during Grow Wings and Fly. Each song felt like a universe unto itself, but stitched together into something cohesive by the orchestra’s constant presence.
What struck me most, though, wasn’t just the music—it was the looseness, the humor, the humanity of it all. During an orchestra break, the band casually ate cake someone handed them, grabbed popcorn from a fan, and jammed like they were playing a backyard party. The keyboardist shouted out his mom before the final number, proudly declaring, “This proves it’s real… now we don’t have to get jobs.”
For a band that can easily veer into heady territory, these moments kept things grounded. They weren’t trying to be “serious” artists. They were just a bunch of guys clearly enjoying the hell out of playing music together, sharing jokes, and connecting with the crowd.
And that crowd… my god. Fans in wizard hats, lizard costumes, psychedelic outfits. It felt like stepping into a subculture I’d once laughed off, but now understood. The vibe was pure joy, a communal celebration of weirdness and sound.
King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard have released 27 albums in just over a decade. That’s an insane pace, and not everything is essential. But taken as a whole, their body of work paints a portrait of a band that thrives on exploration, on risk, on defying expectation. Seeing them at the Hollywood Bowl with an orchestra only underscored that ethos. They’re not afraid to throw themselves into something that could fail, and more often than not, they pull it off spectacularly.
I once thought their name was a joke. Now I realize it’s a signal: don’t take anything too seriously, but don’t underestimate them either. They’ve built their own world…. the “Gizzverse”… that doesn’t need Spotify and invites you to lose yourself, to dance in the absurdity, to revel in the eclectic.
Walking out of the Bowl that night, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. I had dismissed this band years ago because I didn’t “get it.” But maybe the point isn’t to “get it” in the traditional sense. Maybe the point is to let go—to give yourself over to the chaos, the humor, the sheer audacity of seven guys who’ve somehow made a career out of chasing every musical whim they’ve ever had.
They don’t play by the rules, and maybe that’s why they resonate so deeply now. In a world where so much feels rigid and commodified, their refusal to stay in one lane feels like freedom.
And yes, I still think the name is ridiculous. But after seeing them at the Hollywood Bowl, I also think it’s perfect.
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