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Two years ago, five lads in black dress shirts, white ties, and black peg-legged high-waters crashed upon our shores. Loudly. They came from the land of ABBA and IKEA, Ace Of Bass and Bjorn Borg. They went by violent, provocative names: Vigilante Carlstroem (rhythm guitar), Nicholaus Arson (lead guitar), “Howlin’” Pelle Almqvist (howl), Dr. Matt Destruction (bass), Chris Dangerous (drums). They carried with them a dozen Gatling gun blasts of Nuggets-vintage garage-punk fury, wrapped with enough ass-shake showmanship to make Diamond Dave positively green (tights with an offsetting gold lamé dinner jacket) with envy. They called those blasts Veni Vidi Vicious—the flagship of the so-called “new rock” movement (The Strokes, The White Stripes, yadda, yadda).
So, here we are, two years later, and those five Swedish lads, collectively known as The Hives, find themselves in an enviable position. While Veni Vidi Vicious hasn’t quite sold gold, the group managed to sign a $10 million, three-album deal with Interscope, thanks in no small measure to complete radio/MTV saturation of the snot-nosed anthem “Hate To Say I Told You So”; brief, brutal, bloody stage shows; and their cock-sure proclamations that they will “achieve total domination of the United States.” Hey, folks dig confidence—especially A&R folks, who without any hesitation whatsoever would sell their firstborn if it meant signing the buzzin’est “buzz band” in the country.
Well, the ink has dried, and The Hives’ long-awaited follow up to Veni Vidi Vicious (originally released in 2000; re-released in 2002 after The Strokes and White Stripes changed the face of radio playlists nationwide) is now upon us. Only the group’s third long-player in a decade-long career, Tyrannosaurus Hives was a long time in the making—a period that saw the band morph from Ramones-Stooges acolytes to Kraftwerk fetishists. According to reports, the boys, like any good rock obsessives, spent upwards of six months discussing their new direction before writing a single song. Six months! Discussing!!
That prep work has paid off big time on Tyrannosaurus Hives, a brilliant platter that balances punk posturing and chilly electronica with Devo-like panache. The blueprint is all over the MTV staple of a first single, “Walk Idiot Walk,” part social critique, part booty bumper—all stop-start guitars and propulsive bottom end. Suddenly, the summer has its song, and she’s a mother.
The brilliance of Tyrannosaurus Hives lies in its refusal to stand still, basking in the afterglow of a sound that once changed modern-rock radio. Just when the opening track, “Abra Cadaver,” hints that we’re in for another ride on Ye Ole Garage-Revival Express, “Two-Timing Touch And Broken Bones” drops a herky-jerky beat. All of a sudden, it’s hard to tell if we’re at the Grande Ballroom or Hitsville U.S.A. Don’t get us wrong: There’s plenty of punk to go around; “No Pun Intended” and “Dead Quote Olympics” fire up the fury and then some. But when “See Through Head” kicks in, it’s like Wilson Pickett and Can got trapped together in an elevator and emerged with a bona-fide hit.
Recently, the Howlin’ One described his band’s music and recording process thus: “Most of the songs are two to three minutes, and it takes two to three minutes to record them. Even if it’s a hundred songs, it only takes a few weeks.” Why, then, did it take The Hives so long to produce their latest batch of twitchy goodness—the multimillion-dollar ticket on which their label’s execs are no doubt betting their year-end bonuses? Because it’s hard—damn hard—to make an album that’s set to burst with so many noble influences and genius passages, so much outright hilarity and righteous bravado, sound like the work of five idiots on lunch break. Then again, seemingly tossed-off greatness has always been the calling card of a superior band operating at the peak of its powers. If there’s any justice, Tyrannosaurus Hives will deliver on its promise, allowing The Hives to accomplish what they set out to do in the first place: “achieve total domination of the United States.”
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| —Steven Chean |
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