By the time he'd wrapped up his first decade recording as the Prodigy, Liam Howlett had released at least a dozen great singles, from his earliest squeaky rave classics to the snarling big beat that made him a millionaire in the late 1990s. Howlett's proudly inelegant grooves made him a boogieman among critics allergic to bubblegum, even as the Prodigy enjoyed the kind of mass culture success that any dance producer would secretly envy. If you want to take a break from minimal techno to relive the rush of zillions-selling mainstream dance-- and you've misplaced your Chemical Brothers collection-- any of the three solid albums the Prodigy released between 1992 and 1997 will do the trick nicely.
Unfortunately, as he now wraps up his second decade recording as the Prodigy, the nicest thing you can say about Howlett is that his healthy attitude toward self-cannibalization occasionally makes for decent music. Very occasionally. 2004's Always Outnumbered, Never Outgunned-- the first Prodigy full-length following 1997's multi-platinum, America-wooing The Fat of the Land-- was mostly a crass reiteration of Howlett's greatest financial success, offering slight tweaks to Fat's booming breakbeats and pissed-off rock vocals. But if you stuck to the singles you could almost hear the glowstick gleam of the old hooks under the not-so-scary noise.
The new Invaders Must Die, however, may in fact be a cry for help. Howlett will not be budged from his noisy comfort zone, however much his fanbase shrinks in the face of creative burnout. From the first track through its final seconds, Invaders joylessly stomps through overly familiar territory. It's another lunkheaded, loud mash-up of rock and dance, a sound now so beefed-up and campy that it's perhaps only suitable for shotgunning cheap beer and practicing UFC chokeholds with your pals. The album-opening fade-in is about the only subtle touch on Invaders; Howlett's music is more intractably aggressive than ever before. When he takes an instrumental breather on Invaders, with "Omen Reprise", the result's closer to the dumb, portentous rush of a gabba techno track, minus the drums.
As for the "songs," Howlett's motley crew of vocalists pull out all of the sneers and grimaces and nu-metal tricks to match the music's testosterone level. To say nothing of the volume level: The Jamaican chatter on "Thunder" sounds like he's straining to be heard over a double-decker stack of Marshalls, rather than nicing up the local dance. One track at a time, it sorta works, even with the non-stop bludgeoning of the rhythm programming and Howlett's complete lack of taste in rock. What doesn't work is an album that tries to fill even half its running time with Mockneys shouting dumb-ass catchphrases like "your world's on fire" over hip-house so heavily distorted it's become one big digital smear. Who knew we'd one day praise "Smack My Bitch Up" for its relative sonic nuance? Even a quarter-hour of Howlett's music has become exhausting.
Blessedly but briefly, halfway through Invaders the non-stop stadium rock posturing gives way to a fond look back the Prodigy's earliest (and best) records. "Take Me to the Hospital" and "Warriors Dance"-- with their diva samples and sped-up dancehall soundbites and ambulance sirens and all the trimmings-- are the cheap tracks of the Prodigy's first phase re-budgeted for an era of shrill French techno and restraint-free blog house. They're pretty thrilling. But only a track later here's Prodigy pal Dave Grohl laying down a meathead motorik rhythm while Howlett displays a cringeworthy fascination with the oompah keyboards of modern day "clownstep" drum 'n' bass. At least it sounds like he's having fun.
But then you'd expect Howlett-- a 37-year-old man who's made a pretty penny by shamelessly holding onto the hormonally-amped constitution of a teenager-- would still find enjoyment in this stuff. For the rest of the planet, Howlett's brand of glee may no longer provide the same rush as when we were on the cusp of adulthood, fist-pumping to Fat of the Land. While it'd be nice if Howlett found a new generation of teenage dirtbags to take our places, the occasional burst of cloddish nostalgia-- dig that old school house piano on "World's on Fire"-- doesn't alleviate the sad fact that even the Prodigy's singles, a source of mild throwback pleasure as little as four years ago, have becoming a slog.
