The Hives – ‘The Death Of Randy Fitzsimmons’ album review: the last will and testament of Randy’s rock ‘n’ roll dream
It begins with a hum that threatens to fry the amp. It’s the sort of hum you don’t hear too much these days. It roars like the primordial purr of some cat from the afterlife—the ghost of rock empresario Randy Fitzsimmons oozing out of the speaker perhaps? What follows is The Hives acting out what one might imagine was the mystic figure’s last will and testament: a frenzy of rock ‘n’ roll so adrenalised and unhinged that the very essence of ‘giving a damn’ is obliterated and the doctrine-less religion of rock reigns supreme.
This is why the late secretive manager brought the Swedish instrumentalists together in the first place, assorting characters that could alchemically create something as atom-splitting as The Death of Randy Fitzsimmons. In this regard, he is, in many ways, the benevolent obverse Oppenheimer of music. On the record honouring his passing, the A-bomb that he was so instrumental in creating, detonates with a resonant crash of freedom. This is the crux of the album.
The musicology? Well, it is much of a muchness. No song strays too far from the rally cry of Chris Dangerous smashing his kit like an octopus who has been on anabolics, Nicholaus Arson and Vigilante Carlstroem somehow keeping up with that rhythm like the greyhounds who lapped the racetrack rabbit—riffing with poised precision and visceral energy at the speed of light, the Johan and Only doing Johan things, and Pelle Almqvist howling out mantras like the Pavarotti of rock witchdoctors. And that is all I have to say about that.
The fact the longest song is 03:44 should tell you everything about the musicology anyway. It’s a frenzy to the point that it can almost be overwhelming. Alas, unlike many modern records, triumphantly, it also has you imagining the live translation—the sweat smearing the walls, the entrancing liberation causing accountants to risk buying the two-pinter despite work in the morning, the smiles slapped on teenagers faces as their minds become addled with The Hives’ awe for the first time.
And then comes the curious pause of ‘What Did I Ever Do to You?’, a grooving ditty that embraces a sparser soundscape and purveys something akin to Sweden’s most hard-wired rock ‘n’ fanatics tackling west-coast hip hop. It is a bluesy gem. Then the blitzkrieg of drums on ‘Step Out of The Way’ that closes things in 90 seconds of dropping-a-mentos-into-a-coke madness, has you wondering whether the previous luscious respite was a delusion you dreamt up in a state of delirium.
The band might now be 30 years into their career, but they are just as potent as ever, if not at their potency peak. Rather than undergoing a refinement or exploration, unlike many bands, they have simply dug deeper into the core ethos that has always sustained them from the get-go: to rock out. Thus, there are no surprises on The Death of Randy Fitzsimmons, no skeletons of ‘what if’ rising from the casket, just a further assuredness that fucking about like lunatics is, indeed, worthwhile. Vitally, they do this once more with humour, imagination, and truly stellar musicianship. As John Cooper Clarke said of the Ramones: “They understood that it was better to have clever lyrics about moronic subjects than the other way round.” That same self-aware joy is on display here.
The record might prove a lot in one wallop, but you can always rely on The Death of Randy Fitzsimmons to offer a pick-me-up should you ever need to eg. lift a 4×4 out of the last available parking slot, pluck up the courage to hand that bastard manager your notice at that job you hate, or blow off the steam of a sugar rush by barnstorming around the flat like a Jack Russell with a penchant for energy drinks. Years from now it will remain a vault of fun to tap into at will, and no doubt conjure memories of a rip-roaring concert.
The band claim to have found these songs in an empty casket following clues laid out in an obituary about their manager, the mystic Mr Fitzsimmons. Pelle then defined the feel of these entombed demos perfectly, stating: “There’s no maturity or anything like that bullshit, because who the fuck wants mature rock ‘n’ roll? That’s always where people go wrong, I feel. ‘It’s like rock ‘n’ roll but adult,’ nobody wants that! That’s literally taking the good shit out of it. Rock ‘n’ roll can’t grow up, it is a perpetual teenager and this album feels exactly like that which is all down to our excitement – and you can’t fake that shit.” And that utterly refreshing press release is just one of the reasons I’m happy to celebrated this unshackled blast.
Never Miss A Beat
The Far Out New Music Newsletter
All the latest New Music from the independent voice of culture.
Straight to your inbox.