| All
right, bring in the new blood. Due to the relative youth of
techno music, it’s not a surprise
that dance bands have relatively short careers. But when one
of them gets long in the tooth after just a few albums, it’s
depressing. “Come With Us,” the fourth original release
(not including their impressive mix CD Brothers Gonna Work It
Out), by Tom Rowlands and Ed Simons, a.k.a. The Chemical Brothers,
is mainly a hollow shell of their previous work. Hardly progressive
and hardly surprising, the CD doesn’t exactly suck, but
being predictable and obvious is nearly bad enough. |
So
far removed from their towering masterpiece Dig Your Own
Hole
that you’d think it was made by a rip-off band, “Come
With Us” is pretty bare of interesting samples, instead
overrun with treble-heavy blips and droning drum loops
that sound like the ones you can program on a $100 Casio.
Previous release Surrender pared down the rock-and-roll
flavor for a subtler but still cool sound, employing a
soft musical approach to techno. But here, almost all traces
of originality are gone. Initial songs like the title track
opener and “It Began In Afrika” are pleasant
but derivative, and the following ones, like overrated
club favorite “Star Guitar,” are either irritating
or anonymous, proving that some techno fans are easy to
please.
Things start to pick up with vocals, like when “The State We’re In” utilizes
the Brothers’ favorite guest Beth Orten’s sweetened lungs. “Denmark” finally
brings some energy to the record -- momentum that is quickly deflated by the
ironically-titled “Pioneer Skies,” a track which blazes no new trails.
However, saving the album from despair is the closing track, “The Test.” This
blast of brilliance is so fresh and invigorating, it ranks with epic classic “The
Private Psychedelic Reel” as one of the best Chemical tunes to date. “The
Test” would be explosive enough as an instrumental jolt, but adding to
the mix is Richard Ashcroft, lending his sexy-as-fuck voice to the beat like
the twist of lime in a gin-and-tonic. The eight-minute trip builds upon the blistering
tempo of a jet-fueled guitar loop, until the detonating bass sends Ashcroft’s
the-drugs-worked-like-a-charm lyrics into space. “Did I pass the acid test?” asks
the oft-repeated chorus, and the answer is hell, yes. Unfortunately, this groovy
number finishes the album when it should kicked off the record it promises but
never delivers. Hopefully, it signals that Rowlands and Simons still have something
left in the tank and aren’t dying off as fast as it appears.
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