Hot Hot Heat - 'Elevator' (Sire)
4/5
By: Toby L
The plight of a band 'coming back' in 2004 and 2005. Like any one of the second-album-reaching emergents of recent years - The Music, The Datsuns, The Thrills, The Hives (second album-ish, at least) - Hot Hot Heat are returning to a reasonably muted reception.
And, because? It's certainly not associated to the contents of new, Dave Sardy-produced work, 'Elevator'. The wild-haired foursome are as extravagantly pop-infused, riotously contagious and famously fresh as ever. Yet there's competition abound. We're reaching the new furrows of a second wave of (decent) Britpop - where Arctic Monkeys, Franz Ferdinand, Duels, Kaiser Chiefs, and some more besides are crafting intelligent, artsy music that's taken pride of place at the forefront of our consciousness. Anything beyond six months old...? Out of date. Warhol's threats are faster becoming a cringing reality.
But for all the prolonged / fleeting fun, please don't discount those purveyors of the clever pop shtick that already greeted us earlier this century. HHH have bettered their revered debut 'Make Up The Breakdown', yet what's scary... many of you may not ever learn this. No use mourning lack of hyperbole; the seeming, only way to rise to any form of prominence of late; at least Hot Hot Heat are writing the spiky, frenetic and passionate indie that few are quite so hot under the collar to. The fact it exists is what's worth celebrating; not the column-inches it garners.
'Elevator' is a far more giving album than its predecessor - harder, more bitingly urgent, less of the disposable dancefloor about it. Following an indistinguishable, virtually muted 'Introduction', it's nihilistic, manic pop anthem after deranged, exhausting pop anthem, time and time again. Like The Strokes given a handful of pills and several neon lights and being told to, 'Write happy, damn it.' So uplifting and awash with bluster and non-scene swagger are HHH that fifteen tunes swarm past in what seems under half an hour (in reality, it's actually little more), and we're keen for a second dose.
'Running Out Of Time' is rampant, Cure-y bellowing vocals and huge guitars and crashing drums... and so is every other song that follows (save for 'Soldier In A Box', which shamelessly steals a well-placed, really-rather-Pixies sensibility in its opening, screeching guitars and panic attack frivolousness). And due to no recession or lull in activities, stand-outs prove rich and scattered - the completely, appallingly straightforward and awfully titled 'You Owe Me An IOU', offbeat, stop-start jazz orgy 'Shame On You', keyboard-strewn and not-half-repetitive 'Dirty Mouth' and a closing, space-rock 'Elevator' are an informed lesson in off-the-wall and immediately engaging pop masterclass.
You've been given the tip. Please; this time, take it.
Artists in this article: Hot Hot Heat
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