This album by Hot Chip has
the distinction of having the absolute
worst graphic design of almost
any record ever, certainly of any record
in my collection. The track list, the title,
the lyrics, the name of the band, the
credits, appear to all be jammed together
and overlapping each other on the front
cover, black ink on a white background.
Inside the gatefold: nothing but white.
On the back cover: nothing but white.
On the record sleeves, nothing but white.
On the record center labels, all four sides,
nothing but white. So much art real estate
absolutely gone to waste. I mean, I appreciate
tasteful minimalism (think the White Album),
but this approach just frustrates. Musically, Hot Chip
makes a very serviceable synth pop disco,
borderline soft rock. The main singer has a super
sweet tenor, the kind of voice you might hear
in a boy band, on some songs a voice heavily
modified with all manor of electronic effect.
I do not remember what inspired me
to buy this record. Although I like it,
find it pleasant enough to listen to, I can’t
imagine hearing any of these songs and
thinking that this is a record I had to have.
It doesn’t now tickle any of those spots
that make me love a band or a songwriter.
I must have read some positive reviews
somewhere. Maybe someone compared
them to something else I liked. I have no idea.
I know I would not have bought this record
because of it’s cover art, which, as I’ve said,
is utterly stupid. It’s possible I just took a
chance, threw caution to the wind, bought
a record by a new artist on a whim. Maybe.
But right now, after all four sides (who knows
whether I listened to them in the right
order), I’m trying to imagine a situation
where this might be the record I reach for
and I am hard pressed to think of one.
Notes on the vinyl edition: A Bathfull of Ecstasy, Domino Records, 2019, double clear vinyl.
In case you don’t already know: I’m listening to almost everything in my vinyl collection, A to Z, and writing at least one, sometimes two or three long skinny poem-like-things in response for each artist, and on a few occasions, writing a long skinny poem-like-thing in response to more than one artist. As a poet and a student of poetry, I understand that these things look like poems, but they don’t really sound much like poetry, hence, I call them “poem-like-things.” I’ll admit that they’re just long, skinny essays that veer every now and then into the poetic or lyric.
michael jarmer 