The Klaxons' full-length debut is the kind of music Mad Max would play while cruising around the post-apocalyptic desert. Brash and noisy, yet strangely ethereal, Myths of the Near Future manages to surprise with off-kilter melodies while still carrying a tune.
Fuzzed-out guitars and electronic white noise aside, these London lads are more pop at heart than they would care to admit, but it's the additional retro-futuristic sounds they work in that make this promising introduction.
The Klaxons' name fits their music more than any self-respected hipster band's should — sirens appropriately influence several of the album tracks. The second song, "Atlantis to Interzone," starts off like the techno soundtrack to a factory break-in, with the ascending whine of an alarm punctuating the beat until the vocals come in.
Rather than transform the wailing sirens into a soft melody, a la the Flaming Lips on At War With the Mystic's "Mr. Ambulance Driver," the Klaxons use the noise more for effect, letting it bore into the listener's head to clear a path for the solid drum-and-bass groove that follows.
The Klaxons are by no means a one-trick horse, however, and the industrial intro quickly gives way to an angsty bridge punctuated by stabbing guitars and the throwaway lines of the half-screamed refrain: "From Atlantis to Interzone/ You start on the edge and you end on your own." Again, no deft transformation here; the band simply stops the intro beat and enacts a rhythm change without even a pause for breath.
Somehow, the package comes together for the most part, thanks to the guidance provided by the band's eclectic sensibilities, which draw upon everything from OK Go-style dance rock to the post-punk style of the Pixies. The Klaxons' sound seems intimately familiar and strange at the same time, like a grade-school friend who comes back to town a foot taller and sporting a ratty goatee, except, despite his newly awkward appearance, this friend can dance up a storm.
The Klaxons aren't afraid to be a rock 'n' roll band, and this attitude doesn't let any artsy elements get in the way of a good riff or a great beat. Right at the beginning of the album, a strident rhythm immediately leads the listener down the epically haunting primrose path of "Two Receivers." The awesomely heavy beat never grows ponderous, even as piano arpeggios bolster Jamie Reynolds' echoing vocals to recreate the song he describes: "Krill-edible oceans at their feet/ A troublesome troop out on safari/ A lullaby holds their drones in sleep."
Are we floating on the swells of a moonlit sea, or out into the infinity of deep space? It doesn't seem to matter as Reynolds expertly sets the eerie scene, whatever scene that may be.
And while the Klaxons' lyrics are abstract to the max in the style of every other band to come out of the indie hinterlands of northern Europe, they can be forgiven any redundancy for the ease with which they flow into the music. Since the words are mostly obscured by the haze of tripped-out electronics, this is all that really matters.
Besides, the Klaxons do the whacky lyrics thing better than many of their compatriots. The intro to "Totem on the Timeline" could be the setup for a Bloc Party tune, but Reynolds' random thoughts, which name-drop Julius Caesar, Lady Diana, Mother Theresa and someone called Cerebella, quickly surpass Kele Okereke's often daft attempts at meaning.
Never mind that Reynolds has a Mars Volta-esque penchant for characters dressed up in bastard-Latin names — the vocals fit the band's grab-bag of modern and classic sounds. They don't try to attain the post-punk pout perfected by bands like The Sounds, instead settling for an early Beck-meets-Louis XIV swagger or venturing into more spacey territory altogether.
Musically, the group isn't afraid to experiment, whether they're mashing up diverse influences or creating something entirely new. On "Gravity's Rainbow," the band tips its hat to Rage Against the Machine with a "Bulls on Parade" intro, but soon moves on with a cascading, melodic refrain that has all the pristine grandeur of a roaring waterfall. The grim, almost off-key chanting that begins "Isle of Her," on the other hand, resembles little else besides the band's own perverse take on a futuristic work song, replete with squealing synthesizers and vocal layering that sounds like a choir of robots.
Myths of the Near Future is certainly a mess. Whether or not it's a beautiful one depends on how much post-punk noise mayhem you can stand to enjoy.
By the time the shrill guitar tones (which, incidentally, emulate a police siren) penetrate your inner ear at the beginning of the second-to-last track "It's Not Over Yet," you may well wish it were. However much you like the nuclear rubble of the Klaxons' cluttered soundscape, listening to the entire album through can be like staring at the sun through a cheap pair of sunglasses.
Sometimes, though, staring at the sun can be strangely exhilarating in a strange sort of way, and if you're in the mood for post-punk love, the Klaxons hit the spot harder than most.
Grade: 4 out of 5
