Klaxons

Love Frequency (Akashic Rekords)
03/20

Many who witnessed heyday Klaxons, removed from the ludicrous bluster and overblown pill-chat, would report a talented, weird indie band. Yeah, there were glowsticks in the air or whatever, and the synth stabs were custom-designed to prick even the most passive of ears, but there was actually far more to them than the forced post-90s imagery which had droves of sub-16s wetting their business.

But it’s now become overwhelmingly sad. The K-carved, indistinct white tablet and corny-as-fuck title which adorns Love Frequency’s exterior are a drab cry for attention, and the three once talented and weird young men who’ve carved its interior are now a weary, bloated and self-congratulatory chain of coming-down, came-down catamites, a human centipede of mutual affirmation which gushes into itself; an insular throb of blinkered shuffling, assuring itself that someone with an opinion worth a shit might be saying aloud, ‘when’s the next Klaxons album out?’

So much is wrong with this record. Wrongest of all is that in an attempt to freshen up the Klaxons brand, Love Frequency ends up sounding more dated than a skiffle quartet, any husks of decent songs riddled with plasticky production proving even James Murphy isn’t infallible. The record’s particularly foul and flimsy second half is formed from lackadaisical electro-trance-EDM reference points that they keep stretching their long, spindly arms towards on their endless, cyclical trajectory, but just can’t grasp, ever held back by that triple headed monster of denial. It’s sad. It’s also boring. It’s rust-ridden right to its barely flickering, vaguely glowing, subtly undulating core.