Placebo

Without You I’m Nothing (Virgin)
by Jamie Kiffel

When asked by British press for a five-word self-description, Placebo lead singer Brian Molko replied, “I need a fucking drink.” Overfilling the space between spates of insobriety is the band’s latest release, which spills through speakers with more obvious intoxication than alcohol and as much fetish as Molko himself: it wells up in sound like black-hot liqueur spiked with acetone. The tracks are thick with dark thoughts and bizarre rhymes, often cryptically impenetrable, sexy without explanation and reeking of stage makeup. Dim-lit but driving, atonal guitar chords with industrial clanks and buzzes keep up the motion under Molko’s front-and-forward buzzy, boyish voice, which simultaneously sighs androgyny and laps at sex. While Molko’s words make little straight sense, they are so rhythmic and surprisingly arranged that they become desirable as substances in their own right: words as objects to be had. Their newness refires the shock and interest value they had when they were coined, making them want-worthy again. Gender-swapping sex words are scattered throughout, placed so oddly that they demand attention for their newness, with phrases like “a friend with breasts and all the rest; a friend who’s dressed in leather” and “these bonds are shackle-free/wrapped in lust and lunacy.” Do I hear metal-studded corsets being latched? By avoiding straight sexual narrative, suggestive words become a tool for the listener to create infinitely weird permutations of personalized erotica. With the accompaniment of an occasional tomb echo and ghost-in-chains waltz (pat – swish, swish), I see lampblacked eyes watering with vague hopelessness and purple lips smirking with the promise of gritty sex. Placebo succeeds because it does not just talk about the fetish; it, itself, is the fetish. That is, it’s only dirty with your creative help. But then, it offers a lot of fodder for thought.
(338 N. Foothill Road Beverly Hills, CA 90210)