Showing posts with label Hot Chip. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hot Chip. Show all posts

Tuesday, 16 August 2022

Chip Priests

I just got back from Supernormal festival, so you can look forward to a review in the forthcoming Nightshift (preview: it was ace).  Here's my latest for MusicOMH in the interim.  


HOT CHIP – FREAKOUT/RELEASE (Domino)

Boogie is long overdue a mainstream revival. The misleadingly monikered microgenre added a bit of gutsy R & B bounce to sleek disco rhythms as the 70s bled into the 80s, and then played them in such an intensely uptight, airtight fashion you’d think they were planning on sending twelve inch singles to the Mariana Trench. What admirer of early Foals’ buttoned-down pop wouldn’t get a finicky frisson from Earth, Wind & Fire’s cover of "Got To Get You Into My Life"? How many people nodding along to the airbrushed sounds of Everything Everything wouldn’t find something to like in the antiseptic rubber bounce of Heatwave or Pure Energy? Hot Chip might be leading the revival by building "Down", the opening track from their eighth album, around a loop from boogie obscurity "More Than Enough", by Universal Togetherness Band.

To keep the wryly knowing groove going, "Eleanor" comes on like an early 80s Kool & The Gang cut at an alternative universe school disco, whereas the title track is chunkier, opening with the repeated robo-mantra “Wild beast/ Freakout, release” - imagine the backing singers from "Electric Avenue" trying to remake Fatboy Slim’s "Eat, Sleep, Rave, Repeat" and you’re halfway there - and ending with a delicious Chicago house descending synth line; it even has a slight similarity in the vocal line to "We Are Family", just to retain the vintage mobile disco vibe. But this opening trio is a trick, wrongfooting you into an album, not of retro-bangers, but of restrained and introspective keyboard contemplations. Despite the Dionysian flavour of the title, Freakout/Release could more accurately be titled Comedown/Regret, wistfully noting the passing of the good times. The lyrics return to this post-party melancholia again and again, the mojo having fled suddenly, pop euphoria having been replaced by the quotidian: “Music used to be escape, now I can’t escape it” ("Freakout/Release"); “We raise our glasses in remembrance/ When only yesterday we took our chance” ("Not Alone"); “Ain’t it hard to be funky when you’re not feeling sexy?” ("Hard To Be Funky"). Hot Chip’s previous album was entitled Bath Of Ecstasy, but this one is more like a cold shower of middle-aged regret, with a good splurge of Radox Pomegranate, Hibiscus & Remorse exfoliating body scrub.

Not that the music is cold, there’s a swirled-brandy warmth to these songs which rescues them from self-pity. "Broken" has a stately resignation which is part Pet Shop Boys, part barely remembered Canadian synth-poppers Kon Kan, "Miss The Bliss" is Frazier Chorus chilling out post-club, and "Not Alone" has a soft fuzziness which is not far from current festival faves Glass Animals, but the clearest sonic touchstone is The Beloved (albeit without the loved-up, starry-eyed grins). The whole album is perfect earbud fodder, well balanced and rich, and with plenty of interesting elements to pick out on later listens - check the dirty, dirty bass break in the title track, or the freeze-dried Chic guitar of "Hard To Be Funky". Only "The Evil That Men Do" falls flat, trying to be a woozy shuffle but coming across as a messy, half-recalled Seal song (though maybe we’re still smarting from discovering it wasn’t an Iron Maiden cover). 

"Out Of My Depth", however, is an outstanding closer, an affirmatory torch song over epically phased keys which owes a little to 21st century Sparks, and even shares some DNA with the theatrical  valediction of Queen’s "The Show Must Go On". With a promise to “make time my only enemy”, perhaps this song makes peace with the ruefulness and contrition of the preceding eight tracks. This album is a pleasing, mature release...though a little more freakout wouldn’t have gone amiss.




Saturday, 26 September 2009

Stompin' At The Sav(el)oy

Hello, dear friends, valued strangers and evil spam spewing web-bots, and welcome once more to the David Murphy archives. Here's a review of Top 20 botherers Hot Chip from way before they were famous and the miniature monkey was yet to be wound. They were...quite good. Worth waiting for that verdict, I think you'll agree.

PS Although the BBC editor at the time published this claiming it was a gig at The Bully, this was incorrect. Also, I'm sure I originally indicated in thge copy who promoted the gig, and I think it may have been Vacuous Pop, but I'm not certain enough after all these years to say for certain.

HOT CHIP/ PINEY GIR/ NERVOUS_TESTPILOT, Wheatsheaf, 8/04

Anyone who says electronic music is always the same has got nervous_testpilot to answer to. Not that this would be too frightening as the pilot is quite small and, err, nervous, but the point is that Paul Taylor has the itelligence and musical imagination to make every performance completely different, in a way no supposedly exciting rock band could dream of.

After the tympanic scouring doled out at Truck, tonight he's gone for the danceably melodic. God, give some of those tunes a remix by Fatboy or Sash! and they'd be Top 10 material! Highlights are a crisp "Raiders Of The Lost ARP" and his trademark Queen-mangling gabba finale - OK, it's obvious, but it's so damned well done.

Speaking of doing things well, let us consider Exhibit B, Piney Gir. In lesser hands her kindergarten Korg schtick might wear thin, but underneath the playground melodies reclines a vocalist of great ability and discipline. Add to this A Scholar & A Physician's incisive and elegant production, whicc resists the urge to be too silly (except on a punk "My Genreration" cover, which palls on the second hearing), and everything in Camp Gir looks rosy. Having said this, I can imagine many people being left cold by tonight's textbook performance. I just can't imagine it would be much fun being them.

I'm uncertain about Hot Chip. They look like a mixture of The Beastie Boy's younger brothers and Cabaret Voltaire's chemistry teachers, and they sound like The Bloodhound Gang playing Prince's songs on Chicory Tip's keyboards. Their fiveman wall of electronic funk resembles a Benny Hill sketch about electro.

Trouble is, their suburban sleaze entreaties are sometimes full of wit, and sometimes and overstretched joke; some of the parping synth textures are clever and outrageously funky, whilst some are thin and annoying. Still, I'll be there to watch them next time, and I suppose any performance that leaves an old cynic like me so intrigued must be counted as a victory.