Thursday, June 26, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Listening Station

The Kills

Keep on Your Mean Side

For those who haven't been e-mailed your weekly garage rock alert message from Rollingstone.com, the Kills are a bass-less man/woman duo that has updated the blues for Indie Rock Nation. Now, if that retro, pared-down approach sounds familiar, it should: Danish pair the Raveonettes use the same gender-balanced dynamic in giving their sexy, grainy boogie pop an added mystique. Surely, there are other comparable groundbreakers, but let's not inflate any egos already close to bursting point.

The Kills have a smaller chance of landing radio play than any of their lo-fi, coed peers, but that's okay. Their concertedly DIY ethic backstage, in-studio and on the road reveals a self-conscious need to keep it real at all costs. This requires hastily typewritten artwork (a la Pearl Jam) and mono recordings that glorify influences only they and Greil Marcus can namedrop. The pretentiousness builds.

Thankfully, it stops at the songs, which, if not so well-written and sexually charged, we'd be sticking to ABKCO-era Rolling Stones. Hotel (English boy; not his real name) and VV (American girl; ditto) make dirty, devilish and digital-my-ass rock 'n' roll that keeps just enough distance to remain cool and yet subversively draws you in closer and closer with every listen. Where the D4 and Sahara Hotnights fall short, and the Datsuns and Ikara Colt go too far, the Kills hit their target with almost every lick and stomp they lob your way.

And they don't have much to win you over with--a couple of guitars here, a Dictaphone there and one formidable chick in VV, who evokes Polly Jean Harvey, Karen O (Yeah Yeah Yeahs) and Chrissie Hynde in her assorted declarations. Hotel (who does a mean Dylan himself on "Kissy Kissy") can lay down all the chugged swamp-punk he wants, but he's impotent without VV's empowered disaffection. Herein lies rock's Mickey and Mallory--natural born Kill(er)s of the bandwagoneers.--Mike Prevatt

Dropkick Murphys

Blackout

All you guys who've reached middle age and are still buying the new Ozzy albums hoping for a fresh taste of the glory days of '80s metal should instead pick up the Dropkick Murphys' new disc, Blackout. No one expects you to abandon the godfather of ghoul-rock in favor of, say, the odd blips and screeches of Radiohead or the snore-inducing sonics of Sigur Ros. The Dropkick Murphys aren't part of that post-rock crowd. They're a working man's rock 'n' roll outfit with a hell of a lot more energy than some tired old metallurgist can muster.

Actually, the Boston-based Murphys probably are seen as more punk than metal, but forget all that critic-speak, especially in regard to this new album. This is straight-ahead rock founded on power chords and shout-it-out-loud choruses. It's high-spirited, pump-your-fist rawk with a tin whistle-flavored pinch of Irish folk tossed into the swirling brew.

The new album, the band's fifth, is its best, a complete performance, from the well-crafted power pop opener "Walk Away" to the accessible punk of the Woody Guthrie remake "Gonna Be a Blackout Tonight." "World Full of Hate" is a catchy folk number celebrating loyalty and friendship, while "Buried Alive" is an ode to those Pennsylvania coal miners who nearly died while trapped underground last year. "Time to Go" follows in the grand tradition of rock songs about, er, hockey.

The bottom line with the Dropkick Murphys is their brand of rock leaves a good taste. Sometimes life can be tough, sometimes bad stuff happens, but it's nothing a few pints down at the neighborhood pub can't fix. And if there's a hard-charging rock outfit chugging Guinness and setting up on the tiny stage in the back, so much the better.--Geoff Schumacher

Death in Vegas

Scorpio Rising

Many of electronic music's critics will bend over backwards to remind pop listeners that, until the genre boasts more traditional pop songwriting and structure, it will never be truly accessible. Death in Vegas (not to be confused with fellow U.K. rock-tinged dance act Dirty Vegas) answers that persistent condemnation in Scorpio Rising, a hypnotic work rich with aura and melodies. While it's considerably less dance-oriented than its earlier efforts, and far lighter than 1999's too-brooding The Contino Sessions, the real evidence for the duo's evolution from its breakbeat days is in the distinctiveness (and tunefulness, in most cases) of each track, augmenting the mix-tape nature of the collection.

And yet Richard Fearless and partner Tim Holmes have developed a consistently transcendental feel to an otherwise incongruous record. Sometimes it's in the high-reaching buzz of a synthesizer; other times, you can spot it in the stirring vocals, provided by ex-Mazzy Star crooner Hope Sandoval, frequent DIV and Arab Strap collaborator Dot Allison, and former Jam leader Paul Weller, to name a few. The proven hit overseas, as well as the apex of the album, is the acid-rock title track, with vocals contributed by Oasis' Liam Gallagher, character seeping out of his soaring rasp and assertive speak-singing.

Truthfully, Death in Vegas--like fellow U.K. genre scramblers Primal Scream and Spiritualized--seems eager to prove it can handle any sort of soundscape, whether it's cinematic ambiance ("Help Yourself"), electroclash ("Hands Around My Throat"), old soul ("So You Say You Lost Your Baby") or folk/bluegrass ("Killing Smile"). If you came to dance, you'd better seek out the band's singles for remixes. If you came to hear a band fully explore its potential in crafting edgy, yet hopeful songs, you won't fare much better this year than Scorpio Rising.--Mike Prevatt