Two opinions that could just about pass for facts upon the arrival of Klaxons’ third LP Love Frequency: 1. For many people, particularly in America, hearing the name “Klaxons” immediately opens a time warp back to the DayGlo nights of 2007, when terms like “nu-rave” and “blog-house” were spoken with straight faces and a lack of impunity. 2. It is 2014 now, and Klaxons have made a new album that, quite frankly, is pretty darn boring. However, the second fact is not a direct result of the first—this is correlation, not causation, and even if the terminology and fashion of “nu-rave” hasn’t aged well, its mission to present the 24 hour party plan of rave within a rock band context is as old as rave itself. Besides, Justice still packs 'em in, Simian Mobile Disco has become a bankable live act, and who knows, maybe something good will come of the New Young Pony Club rebranding. So Love Frequency's failures aren’t derived from a lack of currency, but rather a lack of identity.
And that’s an odd issue to have with Klaxons, who put a lot of effort into establishing their previous guise, affixing the prolix lyrics and dubious mysticism of prog onto taut, glowstick-waving pop songs. It proved surprisingly malleable as they made a nu-rave-to-nu-metal transition from their electro-shocked debut to the Ross Robinson-produced Surfing the Void. It’s understandable they’d want to expand: after all, both Myths of the Near Future and Surfing the Void were enjoyable, but also top-heavy and ephemeral. Yet, while Jamie Reynolds alludes to a biblical vision quest on “Rhythm of Life”, the Klaxons return from their 40 days and 40 nights in exile (or, more, accurately, four years) having taken on perhaps the single-most common form of non-American dance-rock hybrids: that of “Don’t Fight It, Feel It” shamanism. The song titles could pass for Madchester Successories—“Children of the Sun”, “A New Reality”, “Invisible Forces”, “There is No Other Time”. Just by scanning the tracklist, you know what to expect.
Beyond the lack of imagination, Love Frequency is a baggy record regardless of which definition you prefer, whether it’s hearkening to “Loose Fit” or just the way their previously punchy hooks have been swapped out for paunchy beats. Synthesized drums bang with almost no variation for up to five minutes at a time, an introductory chorus explains the song’s title before shifting to a custodial, time-killing verse—and then it returns in time to remind you which song is “Show Me a Miracle” and which one is “Invisible Forces”. It’s pointless to quote the lyrics at length, not because they’re ridiculous, but because they’re not ridiculous enough to generate the kind of conviction you need to pull this stuff off. Reynolds sings, “We’re the masters of distraction/ In a time of hyperaction” on “A New Reality”, and it's unclear as to whether Klaxons want to be part of the problem or part of the solution, or whether they have any idea of what they’re trying to get across.
Though a coterie of name producers were involved here—Chemical Brother Tom Rowlands, James Murphy, and Erol Alkan—their contributions are imperceptible here without the credits at hand. You could wager a guess by way of the songs' individual tempos and when the rhythms are cranked, Love Frequency is at least enjoyable in a functional way. And maybe functionality and depersonalization is the endgame. Klaxons aspire for elemental sentiments by using elemental imagery—qualities available to everyone and belonging to nobody, not the least of all Klaxons. The sawtoothed synths on opener “A New Reality” and the curious Earth, Wind & Fire harmonies throughout are brief allusions to the fact that you are listening to a Klaxons album and not any number of E-popping revivalists. Otherwise, there’s barely any trace of Klaxons on Love Frequency, and that's a strange complaint when the best songs here are the ones where the band come closest to disappearing completely, as on instrumental “Liquid Light” and the muted, distant shuffle of “The Dreamers”.
Love Frequency isn’t a complete disaster, if only because the new, chastised, and chaste Klaxons aren’t really capable of doing anything that could inspire that sort of animus. At their best, Klaxons dredge up the kind of sounds that keep the Coachella Sahara Tent bumping all weekend, composed to be aggressive and participatory, yet strangely ambient and easy to ignore. At its worst, it’s the kind of hi-BPM, lo-IQ, alt-electro inanities that are responsible for filling the lineup of KROQ's Weenie Roast and will make you seriously reconsider your position on Coldplay and Avicii’s “A Sky Full of Stars”. For the most part, Klaxons spend most of their time in between, a frequency stuck between stations.
