Rammstein
Mein Land

THE REVIEW

The sun is high in the sky, and while the hearse with plaster heads parades through Berlin, Rammstein is on the beach. Take the vinyl out of the package and enjoy the sun's rays flooding your face, the color of the sun, and the grooves leading to a little round all flowers and surf, then put on the record as the beach party begins, playing some slap-faced Beach Boys, the girls dancing around them, what a 60's triumph. And who's filming it all? Jonas Akerlund, who knows how to handle things.

What are they playing? The usual circular pounding of ultra-compressed guitars, the drums a bit less digitalized-triggered-processwhatever, lyrics of certain epicness narrating how good it is in one's own country, but that in the end, they kick you out anyway, erupting into meat grinder rage, and keyboard hints with an incredibly dated sound. Oh, but what the hell did you expect from Rammstein? A post-rock shift and endless reverb indulgence? Nein. Thus, the second track on the list ("Vergiss Uns Nicht") will go hand in hand, with a narrated intro, heart-wrenching piece from the wolf's fangs (a bit old too, if you want, but still a wolf), poignant keyboards, all beautiful.

But at the party, the Mogwai join in, yes indeed, surprise, since post-rock had something to do with it? So the Glaswegians fulfill the Teutonic dream by turning "Mein Land" into an electrogenic minimalism, a Kraftwerk-like journey and beyond.

If you come to the party on time, you might even get a chance to touch some butts.