Placebo - 'Once More With Feeling' (Hut)
3/5
By: Toby L
Ah, Placebo: more generally hated than war, disease, famine and baldness. Yet somehow simultaneously adored by a whole legion of mini, eyeliner-coated clones that trace the band's every footsteps across the venomous path of eloquent destruction that constitutes their insatiable lust for touring. They are a pesky, macabre bunch.
But, really, Placebo do sell records, and probably don't seem to give a flying, rubber crucifix what you think. Geez - 'You don't care... about us,' concluded frontman, ole Brian Molko himself, in just the band's second album. That's second album. That man knows his (black) market.
But tittering aside, to fault their canon of murky, morbid anthems would be but a criminal assault. Quite consistently, Placebo have held court a rather instant Gothic pop nook in the 'alt' cranny that few else have been girly enough to attempt; hence millions of record-sales, one of the only decent Bowie collaborations out there (included herein - the chilling solitude of 'Without You, I'm Nothing'), and an almost sold-out Wembley Arena date to round off their 2004. Really, who are the ones laughing.
One genuine criticism, however, that could be levelled at Molko and compatriots, is the safeness of their zeal, proven quite frequently in their possibly premature retrospective, 'Once More With Feeling'. Though dealing (if lightly) in some weighty themes - 'Slave To The Wage' with its ethereal, Dolly Parton/'9 To 5'-esque gruelling, or the bohemian drugs sleaze of 'Special K' - Molko seldom dips into drama overdrive to accentuate enough vivid meaning in his poetry; often, it's so formulaic: the sort of petulant, non-descript whinging akin to a teenager that's not allowed out for their Friday night, who goes on to spill all their 'rage' into tear-stained diary pages before falling asleep and forgetting what they were even bothered about in the first place.
That aside, the best way to treat Placebo is as a guilty pleasure, since they do bear some crackingly sleek tunes - the racing abrasion of 'Bruise Pristine', self-wallowing, riff-tastic diatribe 'Teenage Angst', clanging, stark nonsense-isms of 'Pure Morning', sleazy bass-loops of 'Taste In Men', frantic opus, 'The Bitter End' and their still-best 'Nancy Boy'.
Rushed new tunes aside, and you've got a quietly dependable repertoire from one of the most unjustifiably slated of present-day acts. It won't truly mirror or satisfy the gloom in manys' souls (namely the Mondeo-drivers amongst us), but for a stealthy size dotted about the place (presumably the doomed youth), Placebo's extroverted frustration remains ne'er a word spoken truer.
Artists in this article: Placebo
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