The Mortal Prophets have long occupied the fault line between art-rock intellectualism and visceral abandon, and this EP exploits that tension with uncommon discipline. Beckmann treats his source material—Eno, Bowie, Iggy, Elton John, Bush Tetras—not as sacred texts but as unstable compounds awaiting catalysis. The question isn't whether these reinterpretations "work" in any conventional sense; it's whether they reveal hidden architecture in the originals, and whether that architecture can survive reassembly in drastically altered form.
The answer, more often than not, is yes. "Tiny Dancer" undergoes the most startling metamorphosis, its California warmth flash-frozen into ambient drift. Where Bernie Taupin's lyric once sparkled with specificity—blue jean baby, LA lady—Beckmann mutes the colors, rendering the song as dim remembrance rather than vivid snapshot. It's a bold gambit, inverting Elton John's expansiveness into something hermetic and inward-turned, and it succeeds precisely because it refuses to compete with the original's emotional register.
"Third Uncle" weaponizes Eno's proto-punk blueprint, all serrated edges and industrial clatter. If the Another Green World version hinted at mechanized chaos, Beckmann's iteration drags it fully into the factory floor, relentless and unforgiving. The track vibrates with post-industrial menace, David Sisko's mix pushing everything to the brink of structural collapse without quite toppling over. It's thrilling in its single-mindedness.
The EP's true mastery lies in its sequencing, which traces a jagged emotional arc from introspection to paranoia. "Sister Midnight" deepens the nocturnal unease of Iggy's Berlin period, while Bowie's "Repetition"—already stark—becomes positively skeletal, a study in claustrophobic minimalism that makes the original seem almost luxuriant by comparison. Beckmann understands that these songs function as psychological documents, and he treats them accordingly, amplifying their underlying anxieties rather than smoothing them away.
Bush Tetras' "Too Many Creeps" closes proceedings with appropriate urban dread, all fractured basslines and downtown paranoia. It's the most faithful reinterpretation here, yet even fidelity becomes a kind of commentary when executed with this much precision. The track belongs to the same downtown Manhattan ecosystem as the original, suggesting that some sources resist transformation because they've already been distilled to essence.
The decision to release "Unchained Melody" separately proves astute. Its cinematic stillness and exposed vulnerability would have disrupted the EP's carefully calibrated severity. As a standalone piece, it functions as necessary counterweight—proof that Beckmann's approach can accommodate tenderness without sacrificing rigor.
UNDER THE INFLUENCE succeeds as both critical statement and visceral experience. Beckmann has created something bracingly intelligent without lapsing into bloodless academicism. These aren't museum pieces but living organisms, rewired and set loose to function according to new logic.
The EP ultimately argues that influence operates not through preservation but through productive misreading—that the most authentic response to the music we love involves a willingness to damage it, to see what survives the process. In that laboratory, The Mortal Prophets have conducted some genuinely illuminating experiments.