The Hives, on record, have met with a certain amount of scepticism. Quite simply, that’s because this is a band - like a Hollywood blockbuster movie - that we were never meant to sit back, cooly, and listen to. To get it – to even glimpse how you suspect The Hives felt in front of those bedroom mirrors in Fagersta, Sweden – you have to put yourself pretty much at their mercy. And that’s about more than matching uniforms or choreographed stage routines: it’s about putting yourself into the same bubble of ego, of great, beautiful, liberating flaming-youth fantasy as Pelle himself inhabits; it’s about surrendering yourself not just to the music, but to the idea of The Hives.
And that’s exactly what the capacity crowd at London’s Brixton Academy do tonight. The number of sharp-dressed dudes in black and white, the junior Iggys and the garage chicks in evidence puts this firmly out of the orbit of, say, a gig by Coldplay, or Muse, or even Iggy, and into the territory of the spectacles: of live Rocky Horror Shows, of The Blues Brothers revue. Even, at times, of School Disco. The band, of course, is perfect for the occasion: sharp-suited fratboy throwbacks with guitars chopping out smouldering R’n’B licks, and fronted by a young, pouting, preening, sneering Swedish Frank'n'Furter. So, on its own terms, this show, this piece of theatre, this anti-gig... how was it? Mostly, it was fantastic.
Despite Pelle’s reliable line in benevolent-dictator banter - “London...You are glad to witness The Hives at the top of their game, you know!” – the main impression, after the shock of seeing him whip around the stage like a fast-forwarding Charlie Chaplin, is how much of a unit the band are. Because no matter how much the doe-eyed little bugger leaps and jerks, it’s the second row - and big-boned Vigilante Carlstroem really could be a second-row - that captivates. Like James Brown’s horn section or Prince’s bands, this is as tightly drilled a group of ensemble players as you could hope to witness. They simmer and explode at all the right moments. They glare in unison. They thrash with frightening precision. And when they stop, dead – as they do often – they stop right on the one.
That the new songs aired are sparser, spacier and, well, funkier than the garage fuzz-rock of The Hives’ earlier material is a pretty good indication of where The Hives are at, and of where they’ve been. Touring like demons has tightened them up so much it’s eye-watering. It’s given them the confidence in each other’s playing and, yes, showmanship, to leave blank the bits they would have filled with feedback. Tonight, even signature tune "Hate To Say I Told You So" is a more viciously chopped, kung-fu minded proposition than the punky bruiser we heard on their last tour.
Crucially, they have, quite simply, become showmen. Every one of them. And, for the duration of the gig – at least until you get out, past the merchandising stand, onto the bus and home, and realise you’ve forgotten how a lot of the songs went – that’s more than enough.
