Sorry, sir? You were expecting something a little more ‘now’ as a side-helping with your indie this morning? More ‘now’ than this? C’mon, The Kills are so painfully of today (of fly-by-night media obsessions, of recycled fashion, of undying rock n roll mythology, of various forms of denial) they’re practically the day after tomorrow already. They’re a duo. There’s no bass. They’re shamelessly raw and retro. They wear t-shirts and denim. They look a bit grubby and rough round the edges. And they’re transatlantic to boot, casually slipping from the restraint that having-to-be-from-somewhere brings. Meaning they can be from London and Detroit simultaneously, which has got to be worth a double spread in one of the glossys at least. But obviously they can’t actually sound like the day after tomorrow, because that day’s still effectively 30 years in the future from where they’re standing.
To be a garage rock band that can exist today, ergo to be more than just a garage rock band, it seems you have to either floor the room with your presence when you walk in (a la Karen O), rip off an album that everyone’s forgotten about (a la The Strokes) or have some fucking good luck and one cracking single to hand (a la D4). Or you just fall on your arse. With ‘Keep On Your Mean Side’ The Kills sway from one extreme to the other, but generally end up on-side. Face down in their own JD vomit, probably, but on-side nonetheless. She (VV) has the voice of a siren, a set of lungs that draw in the weight of the world, the dirty air and any surplus scuzz, then expel it beautifully, with a bite. The PJ Harvey comparisons are unavoidable, this debut owing a certain amount to her’s, ‘Dry’.
As are the Royal Trux comparisons. Boy/girl, rock/roll, cheap/dirty, there’s no getting away from it really. And then there’s the fact a Royal Trux album never made it to the end without dragging its feet some of the way. From the moment ‘Superstition’ opens the album with its repetitive scrapyard blues grind you already feel familiar with them. And you are. Listen to the way ‘Hitched’ and ‘Black Rooster’ meet each other. Can you see the join? No, but the subtle differences do grow slightly with each listen. And besides, see the way the shout-along ‘Fuck The People’ tumbles strikingly into the blissed-out Spiritualized/Primal Scream mellowness of ‘Monkey 23’. Gorgeous. And as for VV’s smoky-bar femme-fatale seductive album climax ‘Gypsy Death & You’, talk about being floored. Missing a little something, but nothing a very occasional use of the skip button wouldn’t cure.