Paradise Lost – One Second – Review

Paradise Lost

One Second (Music for Nations)
by Chaz Thorndike

One Second is gonna take some getting used to. While Paradise Lost has always pushed certain limits (especially if you believe their bio), it’s debatable whether they’ve pushed a new boundary here, or whether they’re following an oft-pushed boundary a bit further. This album has been called “Depeche Mode with heavier guitars” by some reasonably reliable reviewers (if such a gaudily-alliterative oxymoron exists), but footstep-following Type O Negative and their many tag-alongs (Life of Agony, Pist•On [Piston, whatever], amongst others), not to mention employing a bit o’ that Fields of the Nephilim scariness is more obvious to these ears. And when “Another Day” sounds like Red Hot Chili Peppers in both style and drooping respectability, it’s funny because you can almost hear it. But to avoid totally slagging a band merely because they tried to stretch themselves into new territory (despite the fact that they happened to choose heavily-trodden and provenly commercially acceptable territory), there are beautiful passages on One Second. Much of it comes from the lush production (courtesy of Sank who’s worked with Clawfinger and Misery Loves Co.) of a simple, “catchy” Goth theme. Repetition can be either annoying or addictive, depending upon the disposition and current mood of the listener. During the first listen, I enjoyed the warmth, yet wasn’t really paying attention. Upon picking the thing apart the way we reviewers do, I find it embarrassingly simple and almost inane. The chorus of “disappear” (lower case. oh, those arty, gloomy Brits) sounds as if it’s saying “In a constant commotion, when I speak it’s revulsion, baby, you’ll disappear” and all can think of is “Innagaddadavida, baby” or any of the many misunderstood impromptu toss-offs Ian Astbury tosses in (“salt shaker” instead of “soul shaker” has to be my fave). So what’s the verdict? Hell, I dunno. Light the musk-scented candles, strip off the black clothing, and fuck like primal beasts ’til your face paint runs in rivulets down your ecstatically-contorted face while blasting this, then you tell me.
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