That was at least truthful. Our Hero sighed and watched bleary-eyed as the cursor annihilated one of the most inane leads he had ever felt compelled to commit to the page. Of course, it probably didn't help that he also felt compelled to write only while hammered on Diet Captain Cokes, but the way he saw it, Hemmingway was a great writer, and alcohol had solved all of his problems (except for that last one, but whatever).
Sitting imprisoned at the computer keyboard, Our Hero was all out of options. He had already married all the pens and pencils in his desk drawer (they had been living in sin for years-- it was for the best), and fogging his glasses with compressed air had begun to lose its K-thru-6 charm. Plus, he was out of canned air. No, the truth of the matter loomed as large a litigant in the class-action suit against the grease-peddlers of America: he had to find some way to write about the debut EP from the Canadian foursome Hot Hot Heat. He needed to buy some time-- it was time to listen to the CD again, but that would only get him sixteen minutes, so he needed to think faster than he had ever thought before.
Momentarily blinded by the hot hot pink Knock Knock Knock, he placed the disc into his Hello Kitty! CD player, and waited to be inspired. Instead, all he got from the opening track, "Le Le Low," was Steve Bays' voice reminding him why he'd started drinking to write this review in the first place. Normally, Our Hero would be reluctant to to say that someone was a "bad singer," but god help him, this guy sang like he was swallowing his tongue. He poured another drink and jotted a few notes:
By the third track-- and this may just have been the Captain talking-- Our Hero started to realize that, aural root canal or not, the singing was just maddening enough to work with the danceable abandon Hot Hot Heat so desperately tried to get across. It was crazy, but in a calculated sort of way. Once he "got into the groove" of Heat's compulsively rhythmic strangeness it became far more palatable. Even as he warmed to the vocals, however, the review remained unwritten, and time was running out.
The unique blend of salsa-flavored percussive elements that propelled "Sleep" faded out with piano keys twinkling, leading directly to a storm of hand-clapping and foot-stomping, ushering in the morse-code attack of Dante DeCaro's rapid fire guitar in "Touch You Touch You." He had to give the band credit; the instrumentation was tight and inventive throughout the EP, and latin-tinged tension of "Touch You" was the high water mark. Our Hero slowly took in the keyboard effects (ridiculously old-school lasergun tweets-- laughable, but entertaining as hell) and jittery piano through an alcohol-addled haze; the monitor stared at him, and he stared back equally blankly. At least the vocals on this one had been contained somewhat and were far more believably emotive than before; a nice change of pace.
Finally, as the ebullient guitar work and faint, but appreciated, harmonies of "More for Show" burst forth from the speakers where the Hello Kitty's mouth ought to have been, Our Hero was inspired. It might have had something to do with the fact that this closing piece was an unexpected blast of blue skies and optimism from an EP that had thus far been nervous, but with a sinister swing (the same sort of vibe as "Hell," by the Squirrel Nut Zippers), or maybe it was the lines of cocaine. Either way, he was fired up to write; it would be an ill-conceived, pretentious, and self-referential narrative about the difficulties of music reviewing! And it was all thanks to Hot Hot Heat's surprising new EP. Their blending of vaguely Latin percussion (Hawley's drum work was easily the standout of the album), a hint of post-punk guitar-grinding, and truly insane vocals had grown on him like a not-so-bad fungus. Our Hero was thrilled, until he realized the second obstacle that confronted him: he had no conceivable way to end the review.
