RECENT ITEMS»

The Kills
Bowery Ballroom
Filter Grade: 84%
by Tom Birner | 01.01.2007

If you’re sick of cutting and snorting your average buzz band, you should be very excited about the Kills. If you think synthesizers and soft moaning are "for fags," you’d be happier than a kid in a porno shop with what I saw on Monday night. What happened to the grime? The petulance? The bong?

Oh but be shameless as you grin into your friend’s ruddy face. Here’s a jackknife for that Old Milwaukee- it’s safe again. The Kills have kind of a piss-on-your-grave type attitude that goes straight to your blood and makes you quite possibly want to fuck your friend or shoot heroin. On Keep On Your Mean Side, their slow burning 2003 debut, the noxious duo did so with Jamie Hince’s brawny, bluesy snarls, and the throaty persuasion of Alison Mosshart’s unbending vocals. Not even were there the shortcuts of the interchangeable geek-wail, overemphasized choruses or chordless moog spasm. Making people dance is easier than spotting a toupee or a liberal. Doesn’t anybody remember anger?

The Kills seem to, as tonight’s set blew short fury into our sails. The lower east side’s Bowery Ballroom, with its blank and unfussy character, seemed a perfect host for the Kills savage self-containment. Typical loafers graced the dusty barroom; their thrift store dungaree pockets holding twenty-rolls, their everbearing wells of self-education preening gallant opinions of Phillip Glass and third world economic incongruity. Amps were raised to a crackle. Diehard fans were outnumbered by rock Samaritans and night-moochers. Oh right- the music:

Hince’s stark rumble on “Black Rooster” seemed less a lick than an approaching cavalry. “Kissy Kissy,” a six minute sexual advance, sounded like Velvet Underground lost in the Delta. “Fried My Little Brains” was as childish as its title, but Mosshart growled lustfully into Hince’s frayed bleats on the scalding thud of “Cat Claw.”

The clerisy remained stone-faced as Mosshart- whose obstructive bangs but compound her beauty- wet her unrestraint all over the bashful fops. She’s tough and thin, and likable in a guy way; shy with the words, her foot stamps and her head thrashes sincerely to the music. She’s a more scurrilous Polly Jean, and the hottest thing since napalm. Her counterpart is a bit more eager, talking away from the mic, seemingly moved by his own filthy blues-grinds.

Of course nothing’s perfect. Actually, some things are perfect- certain shapes and Paul Thomas Anderson movies. The Kills could use a rhythm section, but for what they lack in dimension, they compensate with style.