It’s been a long time coming: Our favourite Swedish garage-rock stalwarts return again with the abrasive thrill of The Death of randy fitzsimmons.

---

---

OVERVIEW

Throughout the garage-rock revivals of the Strokes and White Stripes, The Hives were always the hard-wired black-and-white fanatics of fast four-to-the-floor rock that we always relied on for a pick-me-up. Now, after thirty years, they’re back creating brazen riffs, blitzkrieg drums and biblical anthems of itchy earworms – almost as if they never left. There’s no emotional experiment or sound refinements like most other bands would do, no. They’ve simply dug further into the very ethos that has sustained them for years: to rock out.

It may have been over ten years since their last of Lex Hives was released in 2012, but their startling rise to relevance has been astronomical. Hectic bookings in the Summer swooned in Hives as perfect festival music, while a critical support slot with Arctic Monkeys‘ reminded everyone, “damn, why did we ever stop listening?” Now, in the heart of 2023, we see The Hives at their most potent, their most prepped up, their most gutsy. We welcome them in, as the best band in the world (according to Pelle, that is).

A commemorative obituary to the mystic manager of Randy Fitzsimmons, The Death Of… is a marking of his passing (sentient or not); a stamp-mark of adoration, rife with energy and heart-felt attitude. The album barely clocks in at half hour over the 12-track index and rarely strays too far from the path of traditional Hives; laced in Stooges-inspired gloss and sludge. Nicholaus Arson and Vigilante Carlstroem swathe to visceral energy and caustic thrashings; Chris Dangerous takes out his personal qualms with angsty thrashings on his kit, while garish MC Pelle Almqvist howls catchwords and struts like an Iggy Pop in need of a re-wiring.

---

“There’s no maturity or anything like that bullshit, because who the fuck wants mature rock ‘n’ roll?”

Simply put, rock ‘n’ roll never ages. It remains a perpetual teenager still sick of life’s stiflings, with the lunatic 30-minute wallops of The Death Of Randy Fitzsimmons the only offering of impartial understanding; a companion through the trenches; “And they say that life’s for living / But life as we know it / It’s a stick up…”

---

SONG-TO-SONG

The album’s runtime may give you an indication to the musicality. of the album. But come think of it, you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you? A frenetic jackrabbit of a sweat-smear, it’s hard-wired to make you do one thing and one thing only. Thrash about like a fishing boat in a storm. The comeback opener of Bogus Operandi was a blistering factor-in that this band aren’t messing about. A throttling shade of a Western shoot-out-turned-west is Countdown to Shutdown, as a meandering bass brings in the groove. Rigor Mortis Radio is a funky gem of cool croonings looking too fresh off an assembly line; a warbling and a cowbell is enough for me. Stick Up is Bluesy-riff of classic Hives – Tyrannosaurus-esque – while Smoke & Mirrors is a blitz of fast-chord-fashion that shines of true Ramones punk panash, lit with euphoric horns. Man, it’s so good. More All-Killer, No-Filler bracey bravado is met with Crash Into The Weekend, Two Kinds… and A-lister The Bomb, which is pretty self-explanatory, in it’s context. The magic of this band is that they don’t try to do anything clever or attempt to reinvent the wheel spokes of rock. It simply blasts out our auditory cortex, while they shrug and convey “well, you wanted rock didn’t you?” in ASL.

We’re met with a curious interlude of thought with What Did I Ever Do To You? as it plays out a Bluesy-rewiring of a sparser soundscape embracing ditty swells and cascading horns. Before we have time to ponder, we’re swept up in the flurry of closing hour, Step Out of the Way, a cathartic fuzz marking the end of this half hour of sheer fun. In fact, come to think of it, I think this whole album is a twelve-prong jackknife of intensity. Huh.

The Hives have been such an integral cog in the revival of garage-rock and future rock, that you needn’t be so unsure of this album that you’re actively seeking out reviews for it. Instead, just tune into the Rigor Morits radio and lose yourself in the madness of it all.

---

An indefinable splitting of the atom; The Death of Randy Fitzsimmons is a delirious detonation bolstered with a sense of freedom and simply not giving a fUCK. Oppenheimer eat your heart out.