March 17, 2013

Bloody shame

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Apparently that’s what My Bloody Valentine was counting on.

After 22 years of insoluble silence, the shoegaze pioneers grabbed worldwide headlines in February when they unexpectedly released their third studio album, mbv. Jilted exes welcomed back Kevin Shields and Bilinda Butcher with open arms, a bygone infatuation suddenly renewed.

The predictable schmooze-fest quickly ensued, rivaling any rom-com ever conjured by Hollywood:

“My Blood Valentine have released a tremendous record with MBV, one that is a natural progression from Loveless.”

“MBV is a worthy successor to Loveless, and a masterpiece in its own right.” 

A small sample of the fools rushing in. The stampede to the rose-petaled mattress was so hellacious that nobody bothered to turn on the boudoir lights and expose mbv‘s luridly disfigured physique.

Loveless was nothing of the sort. It exhibited an intense, internal passion and enticed hopeless music romantics to forsake rigid notions and embrace what commitment to true creativity could birth. mbv is Shields’ bastard child, resembling its sibling only in their flangey, distortioned DNA. None of the songs receive enough TLC to induce the stomach butterflies hatched by the elder’s fertile womb. 

Given the bevy of underdeveloped extremities, Lifeless would be a more applicable title. “in another way” flexes big muscles that atrophy outside the verses. The fresh air Shields pumps through “nothing is” never gets properly circulated. “is this and yes,” “only tomorrow,” and “wonder 2” serve no functional purpose. These organs waste away, further starving an anorexic body lacking vital nutrients. “if i am” and “new you” suffer from tempo dehydration and require heavier effects enzymes to be fully digestible. “she found now” and “who sees you” supply a faint pulse, injecting potent sustenance into the record’s otherwise anemic bloodstream.

I’m probably the only one not falling head over heels for mbv, but that’s fine. In this case, it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.


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