The Hives
Tyrannosaurus Hives
2004 Interscope


It seems like the Garage Rock Revival entered into the collective consciousness ages ago. Never really a scene as much as a hype machine dedicated to numerous collectives of influence-pilfering musicians, it was also nonetheless a mixed blessing.

Granted, one had to hear that slow-talking gypsy bore Little Steven semi-incoherently babbling about the awful Chesterfield Kings (who’ve been in the game for so long now that their career has progressed into an uncharted territory of pathetic). And God bless them, the NME inappropriately dubbed the Vines the "new Nirvana" instead of "fucking awful."

But there is something to the White Stripes, the Strokes and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Sure, disingenuous is a word that has become synonymous with the Strokes, and it often seems as if the Stripes are equally concerned with publicity stunts and being odd for the sake of being odd as they are with the music. Yet there is a difference between these aforementioned garage rockers and the Kentucky fried trash of Kings of Leon or the dull swagger of Jet: the music stands out on its own merits.

And then there was Hives. The Swedish garage punk revivalists whose retro-attire comes complete with attempts to be cooler than they actually are. It’s hard to ignore a singer that surely must know he’s replicating Jagger’s mannerisms, and it’s hard to ignore their debt to the Stooges (among others). Not to mention the fact they are a talented group of musicians who seemingly practice at sounding like they are not.

Veni Vidi Vicious, the quintet’s breakthrough album, started off with the pure unadulterated stomp "The Hives – Declare Guerre Nucleaire" before cracking into textbook, paint by the numbers rock. They play aggressive music tight and without a hint of aggression, and their latest, Tyrannosaurus Hives, down to the similar cover, is mostly more of the same.

So to ignore their shtick, which is possibly just to be a decent tribute to their worthy heroes, if one is under the impression that the Hives at the very least moderately rock, then I suppose this album doesn’t entirely disappoint. The surfer strut of "B is for Brutus," the assault of "Abra Cadaver," you’ve heard it all before. And if you liked it for the first time, you probably won’t mind it this time.