Helmet
Monochrome

THE REVIEW

That Helmet are unanimously recognized as one of the most restless, interesting, thunderous, and appreciated entities extracted from the corrosive, noisy, and decidedly unaligned (noise)rock of the stars and stripes is beyond doubt; the significant initial pair of works published at the beginning of the last decade of the last century, and in particular the unsettling, intense, stratospheric debut (Strap It On - 1990), are there undeniably to remind us and, should someone have missed it at the time, still tangibly testify to it.

That Page Hamilton, after having contributed responsibly to knocking down the cracked if not perilous "Helmet-house" (the insipid “Aftertaste” '97) and two years ago attempting to stand back up the now worn, battered, and piled boards, in light of the present sixth full studio work represents the only remaining relic and solitary guardian of that epochal formation, is not objectively great news.

That through this (given the mediocre reunion predecessor) not-so-awaited Monochromatic-publication, defined by Monsieur Hamilton himself as a (complicated) “return to basics”, it does not call to itself, as might have been expected and perhaps would have been appropriate but not necessarily conclusive, the members of the original noise-crushing band, but only the person who handled the recording sessions, namely the responsible for the “Helmet-sound” (such Mr. Wharton Tiers) of the initial and qualitatively finest outings, leaves us further moderately doubtful.

That the beginning deceives and unexpectedly overwhelms, by virtue of a hopeful, abrasive, squared (nostalgic?) as well as successful second track (“Brand New”) literally vitriolic (it could be an outtake from the debut) but that concurrently and substantially disappoints widely in a good part of the laborious, at times disheartened, listening experience [among frankly embarrassing vocals of a sterilized title-track or the bloated “Almost Out of Sight” (indecent even if they were penned by any Dave Grohl..)] is frankly unacceptable if not concretely masochistic. Energetic shards like "410", "Swallowing Everything", or the concluding "Goodbye", to be counted among the most “joyful” (or least empty: up to you) moments, almost seem like b-sides (perhaps c-sides?) sneaked from the third and fluctuating (though fully well above the decency threshold) “Betty” (’94): it seems like witnessing a sort of not particularly exciting (and not very credible) noise-rock revival, made of sound as sharp as it is agile, “muscular”, at times positively tense, but too often lacking that essential intensity, that fundamental sound-reactionary drive, that necessary, vital, virulence that should substantively embody a work worthy of the transcendental moniker as prominently displayed on the cover.

What the heck.