If you agree with Tony Soprano that "remember when?" is the lowest form of conversation, it hasn't been easy to talk about Hot Hot Heat's sojourn on Sire. That relationship worked out for nobody-- not the band, not the label, and certainly not their fans. Now, living in the shadow of a beloved debut is nothing new, and Make Up the Breakdown is doubly burdened by its P.O.V., since nailing the metropolitan jitters and elegant wastefulness of twentysomethings isn't easy to do twice (see also: Interpol, Strokes).
Hot Hot Heat are back at square one on Dangerbird, and maybe that gave them the message. And while they're not rewriting "Bandages"-- Steve Bays' voice has sanded too many of the edges off his yelp for that-- for better or mostly worse, there's a promising return to getting lost and naked in the city again. Whether it's due to their rough decade or just the accumulating bitterness of age, Bays flips the script on his persona-- no longer a victim, he's now spewing venom outward. "YVR" begins with the sound of a revving engine as Hot Hot Heat rediscover their full-throttle spaz. "Times a Thousand" cops a "Take Me Out" disco stomp and turns it militant-- "It's not my fault that they hate your face," Bays spits.
Future Breeds is also HHH's first self-produced album; like many rookies behind the boards, they seem to want every instrument loud as fuck. I actually don't mind that pressed-against-the-glass sound from a band that flounders when it fails to be punchy. "21@12" is either a threat or conspiratorial pep talk, but it's held together by a spirited hook. The arm-swinging "Implosionatic" lives up to its title, and it's what Hot Hot Heat do best, compact, unpredictable and delivered with the scalding energy of a band about to jump out of its own skin.
Breeds might be #2 with a bullet in their discography, but it tails off whenever Hot Hot Heat dial down the energy. Unfortunately, this has been Hot Hot Heat's cross to bear-- "In Cairo" is still their only successful slow song. Bays isn't a crooner, and when the synths try to play piano ballads, HHH sink into their mid-decade anonymity, almost indistinguishable from Robbers on High Street, White Rabbits, or any other band label heads really hoped people would think sound like Spoon. But even a half-return-to-form was necessary for a group that a lot of people were on the verge of writing off, and a nice surprise if "the best Hot Hot Heat album since 2002" still means something to you and you know what they had to do to get there.
