If you don’t remember British Columbian ex-superstars Hot Hot Heat from this century’s commencing upsurge of interest in dance-oriented garage rock, I apologize for having to remind you — but such is my duty as your pop-music whore.
In the early 2000s, suited-up, gritty old-fashioned rock ‘n’ roll bands like the Vines, the Hives and the Strokes started topping mainstream pop charts. Already, though, the laws of sudden popularity have taken their toll on the rusty garage rockers — an increasingly rouge wave of sparkling-clean synth-pop from the Killers and other such trash has pushed the movement aside, and only the Strokes still manage to limp on.
Hot Hot Heat were certainly not among the best of the decade’s fresh new rockers, but compensated by trying to be a little edgier. They were influenced more by bands like the Dismemberment Plan and Q and Not U than garage revivalist favorites Nirvana or the Rolling Stones that were so vehemently advocated by the rest.
After a 2001 deal with Sub Pop and by touring with mentors the Dismemberment Plan and opening for the Walkmen, Hot Hot Heat had gained a growing buzz by the time they released their first EP in 2002, titled Knock Knock Knock. The material was decent — much more musically inspired and tighter in its synthesized frenzy than their blare would become. Knock Knock Knock adapted the post-dance-punk the Dismemberment Plan had crafted so well and fed it enthusiastcally to an emo-hungry world still excited by the potential of the genre.
Hot Hot Heat’s debut record, Make Up the Breakdown, propelled them to must-listen status amongst corporate radio enthusiasts and provided a hip alternative for K-Mart shoppers browsing the “New Release” section. It also did away with any unpolished charm the band might have clung to before — though this rock purist doesn’t understand why far superior bands like the Dismemberment Plan and Q and Not U were not favored over the mediocre impersonation Hot Hot Heat had to offer. It’s the popularization of dumbed-down, undistinguished emo rock like theirs that unfairly connotates the genre with talentless wailing and distracts from its stronger points.
The inevitable short attention span of pop culture caught up with our bouncy little mediocrities with the release of 2005’s Elevator: Garage rock became an outdated fad and that K-Mart browser didn’t care about “indie” dance punk anymore (bring on bad ’80s synth-pop instead!). It didn’t help that Elevator reduced any sort of dirty punk into hosed-down, barely catchy predictability. The cliched rock asshole critic who never really cared in the first place found new and far worse bands to rip apart, stranding boring has-beens like Hot Hot Heat somewhere out in no-man’s land.
But they’re still a radio-friendly act with a name students will recognize, and therefore apparently worthy of the thousands of dollars more they will cost than 20 (better) unknowns combined. Really quite sad, if you ask me.
The good news is that Steve Bays, Hot Hot Heat’s lead singer/keyboardist, has a knee-wobbling, aphro-shaking stage presence that out-characters the formulaic blandness of most of the band’s material. He bangs on his keys just like the best of the desperate pop-punkers and fights through the worst of the Elevator music.
Hot Hot Heat’s live show should be decent — after all, when your music sort of sucks, the only thing you have left to do is jump around like a monkey and yelp across the stage to entertain some college students trapped on campus on a Friday night.
Boss Ditties: “Le Le Low,” “Talk to Me, Dance With Me”