Wire always seem to be ahead of their time, no matter what time they choose to exist in. Their legendary three-album evolutionary run from 1977 to 1979 predicted punk's gradual mutation into synth-pop; their second incarnation (circa 1985-1990), as a textural electro-rock outfit, anticipated the late-80s vogue for industrialized funk and dream-pop. And even their most recent reunion in 2000 was an uncannily prophetic move-- after seeing their currency rise throughout the Britpopped 90s, Wire resurfaced just as indie rock was about to be revitalized by a post-punk craze that eventually also lured first-wave peers like Gang of Four and Public Image Ltd out of retirement.
But if a second Wire reunion was inevitable, its outcome has been refreshingly less predictable: Not only has the band avoided the easy nostalgia trend of playing its classic albums live in their entirety, Wire Mk III have proven to be more prolific and long-lasting than the band's two storied previous phases put together. Sure, founding guitarist Bruce Gilbert checked out of the current campaign back in 2004, but the band's momentum has continued apace. And there's no reason to suggest this won't continue: The new Red Barked Tree shows the band's vigor, melodic prowess, and capacity to surprise remain undiminished.
That album title is the first brow-raiser: Amid a discography filled with cryptic names (154, A Bell Is a Cup... Until It Is Struck, Object 47), Red Barked Tree presents a disarmingly simple image that's reflected in the album's surprisingly relaxed, pastoral turns (acoustic guitars! on three songs!) and a lyrical framework addressing the emotional and environmental costs of modernity run amok. Red Barked Tree is a shrewdly sequenced album, and it has to be, given that its impulsive stylistic shifts-- from mechanized thrash to psychedelic folk to nervy power-pop-- mirror the "age of fragmentation" that Colin Newman is railing against. But its 11 songs are more or less positioned along a logical arc, where a sense of ominous unease gives way to violent release before simmering into a peaceful comedown.
With their 2002 Read & Burn EP series, Wire already proved that a band of fiftysomethings could handily out-thrash all of Williamsburg, and on Red Barked Tree, that hot-blooded energy is still in bountiful, if more rationed, supply. But the most remarkable thing about Red Barked Tree is how, 34 years into their career, Wire are still eager to redefine their essence, whether in the form of shimmering, shoegazed sea shanties ("Adapt") or a campy suave-rocker that sounds like it sauntered in off the first Roxy Music album (Graham Lewis' "Bad Worn Thing").
Even when Wire directly invoke their past work, it's subject to savvy recontextualtion: "Clay" puts the bouncing synth-bass frequencies of "I Am the Fly" to less caustic use, while "Two Minutes" applies the full-torque velocity of "Too Late" to a disaffected spoken-word commentary about modern necessities and addictions. By the time we reach the slow-burning title-track closer-- a quiet plea for eco-sanity propelled by tense, tightly coiled acoustic strums-- Wire have successfully reinvented themselves once again, this time as wise elder statesmen cautioning against a world where over-reliance on GPS systems has replaced the basic survivalist skill of knowing your map references.
