With rule-book-ripping art rock ambition these blighters appear to be blessed with a perversely impish ability to turn out alarmingly catchy sonic shrapnel at the drop of a hat, not withstanding that the buggers groove will trepan you in the process. A jarring and jabbing jamboree of acutely angular avant-pop psychosis is I guess the best way to describe the aural action painting belching out of the speakers. Schizoid and spasmodic, scarcely a thought for time signatures which as we are on the subject are so acutely tight you’d need a protractor to record them. Bleaching intricate jazz nuances – yes jazz – as in jazz done by Brand X on acid with a heavy load of Cardiacs, Henry Cow, Apatt and a youthful Plans and Apologies thrown in for scalded measure.
- God Is In The TV (UK)
Take everything you know about punk, free jazz, ska or any other abstract concept used by the powers that be to pigeonhole a band and wipe your memory banks clean. Sounds like? Beats the hell out of me but think Sex Pistols meet the Talking Heads on their way to a Primus show. Wrap your brain around that one. This is utter madness that should have critics scratching their heads and record executives rethinking their career. It is incredibly rare for a band to come along that can completely redefine music while still retaining a deliciously subtle commercial appeal of accessibility.
- Critical Jazz (USA)
Hot Head Show are the kind of band whose reviews generally include phrases such as ‘maddening’, ‘mind-bending’ and ‘surreal’ but the truth of it is you could probably put together any trio of adjectives and it would probably describe this album just as well as those. When the meowing starts on Little Kitty it’s like you have actually left planet earth entirely.
- Culturefly (UK)
Hay quien dice que son una mezcla entre jazz, punk, flamenco, rock y mucha psicodelia, otros los definen como una mezcla entre Morphine y Primus con toques de Captain Beefhart y King Crimson. No es que no esté de acuerdo con estas definiciones, y las bandas nombradas, aunque gigante,s no se alejan de la calidad de este grupazo, pero personalmente yo los considero un grupo de melómanos que cogen la música y juegan con ella. Cogen los estilos musicales, los moldean, retuercen, mezclan y remezclan. Utilizan los estilos, ritmos y melodías con una maestría tal que te sorprenderás a ti mismo intentando saber qué hacen en cada momento, siguiendo la melodía o el ritmo de uno u otro instrumento. Son un grupo para amar o para odiar, ellos simplemente se autodenominan los campeones del Avant-Bang Londinense.
- Musicotropico (ES)
Accrochez votre ceinture, éteignez votre cigarette, mettez la tête sur vos genoux et fermez les yeux. Nous allons effectuer un atterrissage forcé sur une piste en terre battue avec notre Airbus A380 qui n’a plus de moteur ni de train. C’est un peu ça la première impression avec Hot Head Show, un atterrissage d’urgence avec un énorme appareil surpuissant et des pilotes d’exceptions. Une musique totalement barrée qui croise le fer sans complexe avec tous les genres connus et sur laquelle on ne trouve aucun point d’ancrage.
- Neoprog (FR)
Kann man Elemente von Funk, Rock und Bluegrass ausmachen. Hot Head Show gehen da noch ein Stück weiter und bedienen sich noch bei Genres wie Folk, Avant-Prog, Postrock, Dub, Pop, Polka und Salsa. Das alles mal auf anarchistisch eingefärbte, mal auf dezent ironische Art dargeboten, so dass der offene Hörer dem Facettenreichtum nur mit Respekt begegnen kann. Streckenweise schon faszinierend, wie viele Breaks, oder auch mal scheinbar gegeneinander laufende Rhythmen Hot Head Show in einem Stück unterbringen und dabei noch lässig wirken können. Durch einen Gastrompeter wird aus "Unbereable Lightness of Bang" zeitweise ein Avant-Jazz-Space-Jam. Sehr kreativ, wie Avant-Prog und Art-Pop von „Fingers“ am Ende doch zu jazzigen Passagen mutieren. Freunde von geistreichem Avant-Prog-Funk-Folk-Rock-Pop sollten Hot Head Show nicht verpassen!
- Babyblaue (DE)
De band wordt omschreven als "mind-bending art-pop, avant-jazz, flamenco-punks". De genoemde stromingen komen inderdaad in de tien tracks van dit tweede album voorbij, al dekt 'avant-gardistisch' het best de intrigerende en imponerende lading. Er zijn veel referenties maar qua sfeer, absurdisme en teksten komt de muziek nog het meest in de buurt van Frank Zappa/Captain Beefheart, Faith No More, Nick Cave en, op aspecten, bij John Zorn.
De waardering 'geweldig' is niet overdreven. Het geheel scheurt voorbij, je wordt van de ene emotie in de andere gekieperd, de band laat je alle hoeken van de kamer en het muziekspectrum zien en toch klinkt het trio bovenal eigenzinnig. Minpunt: het geheel duurt maar 35 minuten. Ik ga geen tracks bespreken want met de titel van de afsluiter 'The Unbearable Lightness of Bang' is alles gezegd.
- ProgLog (BE)
Due anni fa il loro carattere stilistico aveva fatto smussare l’interesse – dapprima ostico nei loro confronti – di una buona parte dell’opinione (musicale) underground internazionale, era piaciuto il loro sghembo e trasognato modus operandi come ricetta sonora “a spirale” per palati sfiziati all’astruso, in quel ginepraio di accordi e contro-accordi che tratteggiavano un funk strapazzato fino al collo, propagato a centrifuga tra art-rock, jazz-punky e un intero mix contaminato che sarebbe piaciuto alla buon’anima di Zappa o a Captain Beefheart se fossero ancora in vita, ma che in vita a letteralmente estasiato Les Claypool dei Primus, totalmente preso in botta.
Gli Hot Head Show – il cui fronte man è nientemeno che Jordan Copeland (rampollo di Stewart Copeland), imprescindibilmente di chi si sia innamorato del loro “passo” portano avanti il secondo step discografico “Perfect” ben oltre le palizzate della contaminazione dada, suggestionano come in un frullatore impazzito una elaborazione psichedelica quanto “malata” dove tutto suona tutto ed il suono è tutto di suono, praticamente anarchia amplificata che se da una parte fa gioire alla creatività piena, dall’altra confonde e fa venire mal di testa cronici, si salva solo che è stato svezzato con il latte acidognolo delle intemperie appunto Zappiane, il che è tutto un dire di plusvalore, altrochè!
Contorsionismi, ipotenuse sgangherate, quadrophonie sbilenche e tratteggi free-jazz sono le postazioni mentali di questo fulminante (fulminato?) trio che in una manciata di minuti fa provare un giro del mood in ottanta nano-secondi, una diabolica perseveranza attitudinale a sbracare ogni forma canzone in un “tecnicamente atmosfera” che rapisce e diventa amante sodale per chiunque odia lo stare in riga, in fila composta nella realtà delle cose; dunque funkadelica al quadrato, la tribalità vocale della titletrack, lo ska da fiatone “Bang now”, la botta live che “Some money” distribuisce a go-go, il focus trip-hop che si infuoca ed esplode “Bangfish” o quel merlettino acustico folk che odora di fieno appena tagliato “Little Kitty”, sono alcuni dettagli di questo coma vigile che a fine corsa – dopo tante smorfie dubbiose – si va di corsa a ri(spararcelo) negli orecchi oramai a “rota persa”.
Baby maybe you're ready baby maybe you're really ready baby or maybe you'll never be ready. Maybe baby maybe you're ready or maybe you'll never be ready baby maybe you'll never be ready. Krystal was an 18 year-old stripper in small-town suburban Kansas. She had never tasted entactogens. A natural rebel with longstanding disregard for small-town suburban Kansas, she one evening takes refuge in the arms of a 36 year-old male customer let's call him Oscar. Oscar has many fawning friends, suspiciously boundless disposable income, and a gloriously exploratory chemical laboratory concealed within a palace suspended within a mountain on the Nebraska border. Krystal registers a tiny tablet fingered through her teeth and onto her tongue during her first evening in Oscar's white leather boudoir, ecstatically supine in a five-soul shower she thinks to herself that nothing will ever feel appropriate. In July she is struck without warning on one of those five o'clock in the moment mornings by a suddenly endless sense that there is only one possible condition, and that that condition - is Perfect, and as anyone open-mindedly examining the available evidence would surely reach the same confusion the only ambistically realicious option open is simply to decide to aspire to inspire in every observation a sense of Perfect Perfection, to see the universe always in all its Perfectiously relentless Perfectity, to pierce the persistent misterperceptions under whose habitual misdirections she so frequently finds fault with the faultless flawlessessness of every possissuble pubotentially probable pubossibility. Three years from now she'll be strapped to the back of a plastic chair in the rear quarters of a rented van hurtling out of Pittsburgh feeling cold in her stomach and thinking as forcefully as she can muster thinking that everything is Perfect.
Track Name: Bethany
You think you're so subversive, but what's worse is you look mean in whatever you wear, cooler than a wet brassiere removed in the rain, we must stop meeting this way, I'm finding it harder and harder and harder to laugh it away and you say it's on me, and all your friends agree, Bethany you baffle me so. Guess I get off on the thrill of the chase, chase you all over the place, and by the end of the night I might arrive at that kink in your face, and I don't pretend to ignore the biology here in front of me. It could go off at the drop of a hat, and when we're there looking back it could all be over. You can cry Bethany you can cry. Such an immaculate alibi. You can cry Bethany you can cry, but it's a pity to waste such a clean little face on these dirty old eyes. And I know Bethany I can see the kind of daddy you'd have me be, I guess it just seems a shame to be such a young girl playing such an old game.
Track Name: Hello Doctor
Press a pen upon a pad of paper pages. Lock them up in rows of inky little cages. Spent ten years learning how to think, then ten years trying not to. I'm getting pretty good with how to say but not so hot with what to. Hello doctor. Do you trust you to do what you say you will, Perfectly capable, takes you all night sometimes but you get it done, say it with me Bang Bang. There's nothing to know although there's no not trying. Life was always going to be mystifying.
Track Name: Bodie Doesn't Take It Sitting Down
Bodie, yo Bodie, they're on your street. May as well go quietly. Heading south, as if he don't know by now. Bodie doesn't take it sitting down. Bodie doesn't take it sitting down. Well it has been said he'll be happier dead, but Bodie ain't gonna take it sitting down. Coffee with a copper in the park. Should have known to take that meeting out of town. Now he won't escape his soldier's fate, but he aint gonna take it sitting down. Bodie knows there's only so much blow any dude ever sold before the game got old. Pocket of rock from day, he must have got to see plenty hypocrisy, plenty of dues to pay, though he was not to be easily pimped away. Til he's embroiled in these tangling loyalties tumbling royalty, seeing it all these years, part of him always knew it would all end in tears. Bodie doesn't take anything in this game sitting down. Bodie doesn't take it sitting down. Though he never said it, word was bound to get around, and here they come with all their guns and he could hardly have avoided this day could he. Least he still looks like a badass in his hoodie. Though it could be said he'll be happier dead, no he won't escape his soldier's fate, now his flesh is filled with little lead pills, Bodie doesn't take it sitting down.
Track Name: Some Money
You bring me your battles but I bet your bottom drawer, I been down that corridor before, duderino. So go get the scissors from the kitchen drawer, to cut your neckline an inch or two lower, but you mind yourself on that blade. Now she's shacked up with me because I make loads of money because I'm a commodity because I smell what's cooking. I smell what's cooking cos I got a foot in the fire, and my head is in the other oven, hell there's enough of them, said my head is in the other oven.
Track Name: Little Kitty
Little Kitty, how do you miaow? Won't you please teach me? I don't know how. I see you there lying in the sun. It's four o'clock, your day hasn't begun. Your fuzzy little ears have practiced hearing years and years of "kitty, dinner time", so you wake up and eat some meat. Miaow.
Track Name: Fingers
I want you up against a wall. Right here in front of all your animals. Beside the painting of another day some peasant made some other day. To feel your breath against my jaw, a rhythm heavy and irregular, you're even lighter than you said you were. Though I know it might be statistically unlikely; My lips learn faster than my fingers, say all kinds of things that never linger long. I'll talk you through the problem just fine, but my lips learn faster than my fingers.
Track Name: Bangfish
The xanthodontic and leukodermatic, the enuretic and spasmodically torticollic, the acromegallic and hyperkeratosistic, the hydrocephalic and tabescent and cachetic. The radically ectomied, the papuled and albinic, the endocrinologically malodorous. The phrenologically malformed, the teratoidal and peronic, all these distorted orbits, come in from the spectral rain. The parkinsonionally tremulous, the stunted and gnarled, the twisted and hunched and humped and snaggletoothed. The convulsively touretic the generally teratoid, the excessively and even lycanthropically hirsute, the hated and dateless and shunned, who keep to the shadows, those who undress only in front of their pets, pain is pain, progress not Perfection, the tragically pulchritudinous - welcome.