The Kills is yet another age-old reaction of the raw, gutsy factions (read: indie lo-fi) trying to oust the glossy pop (whatever pop may be) that clogs the contemporary mainstream. Much like grunge delivered the knockout blow to the ’80’s Sunset Strip hair bands, this decade’s lo-fi set appears to be on a mission to drown out the Britneys from the corporate airwaves and hearts of America’s über-consumerist youth. Thing is — and as righteous as the Kills intentions are — so many of these attempts to “keep it real” come off with little (if none at all) heart and soul.
With home recording equipment and computers becoming increasingly affordable, the floodgates are wide for any band or individual to record all their own shit and unleash it on the world at their leisure, with no corporate interference whatsoever. Thus, the market saturated with so many naval-gazing recordings (glorified demos) that do little more than lower the standard by which we judge music. Enter the Kills Black Rooster EP.
Let’s see, a girl-guy primitive garage duo — from London — been together a year … hmmm, red-and-white shades of the Fireworks, Flat Duo Jets etc. Moreover, the Kills press bio describes the band as “bluesy, trashy and raw.” We say goofy while we laugh at the Chrissie Hynde comparisons.
Really, Black Rooster is boring beyond belief; picture crappy, droning Velvet Underground grooves minus the Velvets necessary lyric swiftness, opting instead for almost cock-rock faux-sexy slop. The Black Rooster EP is scrap metal that wouldn’t shine even if it were all studio spit-polished. No matter how much this ineffective trendy bandwagon jumper tries to pass itself off as the real deal, you ought to avoid it at all costs. If music like this is what passes for authentic these days, then at least let it be available with a bucket of fried chicken and a Coke.
E-mail Ricky Phillips at letters@metrotimes.com.
