Doomsday message from the space age
After three years of promises, British nu-punk-rock-ravers (if you have to use a classification) Klaxons have finally delivered fans another frenzied album to rival their first,
Though their debut was hailed for its originality, this sophomore effort was initially rejected for being too experimental, and was eventually produced in LA, by Ross Robinson (Slipknot, the Cure). Sure this album is slicker and punchier, possibly because of Robinson's influence, but it has still managed to keep kept its lo-fi, often vague, fuzzy style. And for the most part, it's an unrelenting assault on the senses - just what the fans ordered.
The title track tumbles and clunks like a belt in the washing machine or a daredevil being repeatedly wiped out in the surf - the kind of chaos that leaves you coughing and spluttering but also giving the air a good fist-pump.
is an eerie, bruised and odd-bod number that could be the internal monologue of a bunch of goggle-wearing scientists going ecstatic over their fizzing lab.
The rest of the album is strung between tight and more melodic tracks like
- the sort of songs that audiences at their manic live shows could sing or wave their arms to - and more menacing, raucous numbers like
that will give the brain a good throttling.