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For the stellar garage-rock class of 2002, it's time to show and prove. The Hives blew out of Sweden a couple of years ago, riding the maniac guitar attack "Hate to Say I Told You So," part of a wave of hot young bands giving rock & roll a desperately needed kick in the ass. Like the Strokes, the Stripes and the Vines, the Hives arrived in style. They had matching black-and-white suits, party-commando lyrics, a drummer who must have done time, cheap Detroit-style punk riffs and madman vocalist Howlin' Pelle Almqvist. They also had a killer single: "Hate to Say I Told You So" was a Swedish version of Blur ripping Pavement ripping Big Black ripping the Music Machine ripping the Stones -- and an instant classic.
Now the Hives face the same question as their garage comrades: What do you do for an encore? Well, if you're the Strokes, you could streamline your original rhythmic concept on a sharp new bunch of songs and prove yourselves as groove masters. If you're the White Stripes, you could stretch out stylistically, indulge all your sickest pretensions and prove you can get away with anything except letting the drummer sing. You could also get drastically better (the Von Bondies), have your lead singer lose his mind on drugs (the Libertines), try to sell your fans weak outtakes from your first album (the Vines) or attempt a song titled "Hong Kong Fury" (the Datsuns). Or you could just plain suck as bad as any of the new-metal dinosaurs you were supposed to replace (Jet).
But the Hives have a smart strategy: They strip it down beyond minimalism, refining their sound to an elemental buzz and blast with a scientific sense of precision. Tyrannosaurus Hives is so tight and efficient, it makes Veni Vidi Vicious sound almost like it came from a jam band. It adds Devo-like keyboards to the same mechanically engineered herky-jerk riff, set on "stun," for a filler-free half-hour of fast thrills -- thirty minutes and five seconds, actually. Almqvist has a violent relationship with the English language, screaming over the top as high-speed riffs such as "Abra Cadaver," "Walk Idiot Walk," "Antidote" and "See Through Head" go slamming into one another like an ugly day at the go-kart track.
The only stylistic departure is a great one -- the near-ballad "Diabolic Scheme," a brazenly synthed-up rip of James Brown's "It's a Man's Man's Man's World." Almqvist lets his tortured wail fly ("I had time well spent/I got your mind well bent") over a fake string section and a guitar solo that eerily replicates the sound of the late Robert Quine. Elsewhere, the Hives are more at home just revving the tempo and letting the staccato guitars beat each other senseless, as in the album's finest moment, "B Is for Brutus," which takes less than three minutes to play and might have even taken longer to write. The Hives may be hard-partying rock animals, but from the sound of Tyrannosaurus Hives, they're also a tribute to the precision and power of Swedish engineering. (ROB SHEFFIELD)
Faithless No Roots (Arista)
Who knew that after a decade of chart-topping albums in the U.K. all it would take for Faithless to finally catch a break in the U.S. was a protest song? The British dance act has finally captured American airwaves with "Mass Destruction," a seductive, rhythmic trip-hop track with lyrics like, "Whether Halliburton, Enron, or anyone, greed is a weapon of mass destruction." While the song's pointed message is making waves, it's just the tip of the ensemble's fourth studio collection. The group shows off its musical arsenal on No Roots, including joyous house anthems on "I Want More: Part 2" and the club anthem to be "What About Love," lush ambience on "Pastoral," a jazzy trip-hop vibe on "Bluegrass," and warm pop on the warm title track, which features a give and take between the raps of Maxi Jazz and the sunny pop vocals of Dido. (STEVE BALTIN)
Ashlee Simpson Autobiography (Universal)
"How do you know everything I'm about to say?" asks the brunette member of TV's other cartoon family named Simpson, seemingly oblivious to her debut album's predictable script. "La La" casts Jessica's younger sister Ashlee as a barely legal temptress wanting to "Make la la in the kitchen on the floor/I'll be a French maid when I meet you at the door." Ironic or not, it's creepy. The music's mundane melange of Avril-ish brat pop and Sheryl Crow cod rock reaches its nadir on "Love Me for Me," an anemic rip of AC/DC's "Back in Black," wherein Ashlee does Courtney Love, wailing in lieu of hitting notes. "Nobody's really seen my million subtleties," she says on the title track. This album doesn't change that. (PETER RELIC)
Bitter Bitter Weeks Revenge (My Pal God)
Philadelphia music producer Brian McTear (Burning Brides, Swearing at Motorists) obviously knows his way around a recording studio. So it was a great surprise when his solo debut in 2003 featured little more than his voice, guitar and a few random friends caught mostly with one microphone. Revenge, his second effort, is still relatively stark; piano, drums, bass and guitar are properly miked this time when they're sparingly added. However, the vibe remains the same. McTear sings with a tremulous ache in his voice, whether he's confronting the outside world's uncertainty ("Revenge"), drug dependency ("D") or the death of musician friend Sara Weaver ("The End-Lights") whose final recorded performance appeared on McTear's debut. In all cases, McTear delivers the tough news like a resilient troubadour heavily versed in singer-songwriters as diverse as Donovan to Sunny Day Real Estate's Jeremy Enigk and yet with enough personality to call the territory his own. (ROB O'CONNOR)
Les Sans Culottes Fixation Orale (Aeronaut)
It takes a special strand of rock & roll quirk -- or is it lunacy -- to be an American-born band but sing in French. Yet the seven hipsters in Les Sans Culottes ("Those Without Undergarments") may just pull it off -- and, to be fair, one of the group's singers is originally from Paris. The rest, though, hail from the States, all eventually enrolling in the Rhode Island School of Design, where they formed. And on Fixation Orale, their fourth proper album, the Brooklyn-based septet bops through twelve tightly-wound guitar-songs that might otherwise be Kinks-like, if it weren't for all the French. As it is, this sharp pop is ironically inventive and totally fun. Swirling keyboards and airy, toe-tapping rhythms flutter around boy-girl harmonies that discuss "menage a toi"s and ice cream. Sill, though, it's near impossible not to snicker at the band and wonder if they're for real. Perhaps some questions are better left unanswered. (BENJAMIN FRIEDLAND)
Ben Arnold Calico (Sci-Fidelity)
Throaty-voiced Philadelphia singer-songwriter Ben Arnold has been making records since the early Nineties, including a brief stint on a major label with his 1995 release Almost Speechless, and a Thorns-like side project called 4 Way Street. A music teacher, Arnold says that he worked out some of the material for his latest disc in class with his students. That playful approach is evident, from the Stones-y groove and horn section on "Pickin' the Lock," to the 4/4 thud of "Wilderness," to the mandolin plink over an expressionistic wash of sound on "Sky Was Falling." Arnold's lyrics are just as quick. One moment he's lamenting the fragility of love on "House of Cards" ("You never know when the walls cave in/Just when you build it up again"), the next he's regarding a "vivid velvet Elvis" illuminated on "Blacklight," and the next he's using stringed instruments as relationship metaphors ("I cried like a dobro for my lady Gibson") on the banjo-embellished "Bluegrass." It's Arnold's rangy melodies, though, that make Calico a keeper. (MEREDITH OCHS)
Dillinger Escape Plan Miss Machine (Relapse)
In this day and age, is it possible for a band to be too heavy? New Jersey noise-mongers Dillinger Escape Plan certainly don't think so, as proven by the bludgeoning Miss Machine. Five long years have passed since their last full-length, during which time an EP collaboration with Mike Patton appeared, and a frontman switch occurred (Dimitri Minakakis was given the heave-ho in favor of newcomer Greg Puciato). But neither delay nor lineup hiccup has dulled the quintet's attack -- such freak outs as "Panasonic Youth" and "Van Damsel" are as brutal as ever -- while the surprisingly melodic detour "Unretrofied" could easily be digested by the TRL set. Dillinger get props for trying to push the sonic boundaries of the heavy metal landscape, but ultimately, unless you're trying to drive a third world dictator out of his barricaded palace, you'll be hard pressed to listen to Miss Machine in its entirety. (GREG PRATO)