It's rough times for these bluesy guy-girl garage duos, I tell ya. I mean, sure, if you're the least bit talented you've got a massive hype machine working for you-- which isn't a bad thing-- but you'll never shake those comparisons to the band that built the boat you're sailing. I promise not to mention of the W\x97S\x97 , maybe as a favor to The Kills, but mostly because the two bands sound nothing alike.
Regardless, the Kills won't need to fish for complimentary comparisons; suckers are jumping out of the water. I'll be damned if vocalist VV (nee Alison Mosshart) doesn't have a picture of PJ Harvey at her bedside, and the same goes double for instrumentalist Hotel (Londoner Jamie Hince) re: Neil Hagerty. These influences aren't as disparate as they seem: while Harvey and the Royal Trux worked on different sides of the fidelity line, they were both attempting expansive, ambitious modern updates of the blues. The Kills' aim is just about the opposite; despite the stylistic similarities, they're trying to return the pillaged form to its simpler roots.
Though their minimalism might sometimes sound like straight distillation, the tunes still hit, and hurt. On the second track, \x93Cat's Claw\x94, the raised hackles of V.V.'s voice roughly brush up against Hotel's descending string of power chords, and the \x93Got it, I want it\x94 chorus sinks its rusty sing-along hooks into your lips with stoned rapacity. On this song-- and as a rule-- The Kills offer strictly verse/chorus stuff, with a few careening bars of guitar skree passing for a bridge. Oddly, this is what makes the song great, just as the Jesus and Mary Chain distortion of the record's opener lines a wordlessly yowled chorus like lace on an exquisite corpse's casket, pulling the song beyond the confines of a boxy garage, out into the dark streets.
The band knows when-- and more importantly how-- to augment their simplicity, but it's a shame they don't use this gift more often. It's not that any of these songs fail, at least in the rock and roll or blues departments, but there's a point where minimalism can easily turn hollow. The lockstep lyric and riff repetition of \x93Black Rooster\x94 wears itself out quickly, begging for variation about three minutes in, but the band keeps pushing straight ahead. And no matter how much enthusiasm the band pours into it, the titular mantra of \x93Fuck the People\x94 still sounds like nothing more than a predicate pose. Like their pseudonyms, the band's shove-it adherence to a few glib phrases and riffs is going stale; it's still good, but once in a while, you catch a whiff of lazy, empty self-mythologizing.