Vox Low stands straight under a freezing acid rain, facing adversity, and from the outset of this first LP the message is clear; time for an OK Corral showdown with the opening title “Now, We’re Ready to Spend”: “It costs so much, but now we’re ready to spend.” These children of the night gatecrash the court of the Crimson King, climb onto the tables and piss on the silverware. A superb black mass for a bunch of hippies high on mandrax and dressed in rags and sheepskins. Vox Low manages to set a ‘Sauerkraut’ Morricone- Rock atmosphere of its own, hypnotic and druggy. Krautrock – never boring, always exciting – with an inimitable 60s bass sound, a trippy discarnate voice combined with some Moe Tucker-style drumming. Rock’n’roll attitude in the body of exhausted 90s ravers. Vox Low removed the bland and indecent house from acid-house, only to keep the dark acid side, like the Holy Chalice of Zaragoza. Later in the album comes the song You Are a Slave: “You are a slave/but you don’t remember” – a punk, nihilist topic for a straightforward cold-as-a-razor-blade title. There are hits as well, such as Something Is Wrong, their anthem for a jilted generation coming down from MDMA, for those who hate dancing, in the back.
A song like Some Word of Faith places the record under the seal of the Gospels, the Holy Scriptures, and Depeche Mode’s “Songs Of Faith and Devotion” album. Half muggy industrial, half leather rockabilly: like Frankie Goes to Hollywood covering Led Zeppelin – nothing less. Because, more than the filtered-disco years, the matter here is eternal oh- so-exciting new wave, from which TRUTH emerges when the spotlights from Top Of the Pops go out and you find yourself alone in front of the mirror of your sordid dressing room: in front of you, make-up, New Romantics, cocaine. Fade to Grey. In Rides Alone, Vox Low conjures up the suicided body of INXS’ Michael Hutchence, found dead in room 424 of Sidney’s Ritz-Carlton – naked, lying on the carpet among empty champagne bottles, a black studded leather belt around his neck. With Trapped in the Moon and It’s Rejuvenation, the Parisians deliver a certain idea of modernity: a cardboard western feel à la Morricone, as goth as the Sisters of Mercy, and VHS retro-futurism.
Vox Low delivers the record nobody expected anymore, one that captures the spirit of the world in motion, for the attention of a crowd of social rejects who have one knee in the gutter but refuse to surrender to the prevailing cynicism. A dark, poisonous, nihilist and erudite piece of work for those who worship Primal Scream’s “Screamadelica” and Gary Numan, who stand in line at the Berghain with their pockets empty but their heads full of
ideals.
Paris is a moveable feast.
Gérard LOVE.
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