Eleven years separated them from their previous album. An eternity, that is, for The Hives, those Swedes in black-and-white suits who embodied, in the early 2000s, the insolence of the garage-rock revival. The Death of Randy Fitzsimmons — named for the band’s mysterious fictional mentor, here buried with pomp — marks an awaited return, and the quintet prove that time has not dulled their sense of efficiency.
The critics, well-disposed (an 80 average across nine reviews), hail a record that seeks not to reinvent itself but to recall, with panache, why one loved this band. It is all there: the cutting riffs, the supercharged energy, the sense of the chorus, and above all the irresistible stage presence of singer Howlin’ Pelle Almqvist, a born showman.
Musically, The Hives cultivate a nervous, short, fat-free rock, cut for the stage and collective perspiration. The dry, percussive production restores the fury of a band playing as if they had never stopped. Thirty-five minutes of electric discharge, without a dead moment.
The reproach is obvious: nothing here surprises. The record reproduces a tried formula, without risk-taking or notable evolution. Those who awaited a reinvention after such a long absence will be left wanting; the others will happily settle for so tasty a madeleine.
Verdict: 8/10. A return without surprise but without weakness, recalling that The Hives remain one of the most exhilarating live bands of their generation.