Robots in Disguise follow in the tradition of so many other bands that seem created solely to cash in on the glib fads of the day by borrowing from their betters. They mime Elastica, Stereo Total, Le Tigre, etc. and add to that the snarky, gigglish and exploitative duo-in-lust “hook” that t.A.T.u. exploited several years ago. What does this inevitably lead to? A fast-approaching expiration date. Either that, or a mandatory overhaul. Stunned that they’ve lasted this long, I wouldn’t bet on seeing too many new LPs from this group in the next decade. Unless they decide it’s rebellious to stick around.
Rebellious. By that I, of course, mean the sort of rebellion defined by committee. If they see media and followers jeering their choices, they’ll decide that continuing their packaged passions are just what they need. Flip a finger, bite a thumb, kiss off, ain’t-we-a-couple-of-troublemakers sort of thing.
Based on the evidence of We’re in the Music Biz, Robots in Disugise indeed are all surface, designed and packaged no matter the cost to any original vision. The ladies are named Dee Plume and Sue Denim (obviously fake) and there’s also assistance in the studio from someone named Ann Droid. Usually the only time when such name changes work are when they’re done for the sake of “family” group aesthetic (Sly & the Family Stone, the Ramones, et al). But maddening monikers are the least of their problems.
The music itself is the sort of soulless post-punk, new wave, electro, dance fusion that passes itself off as deliciously retro. They find ways to twist angular rhythms without mining the stop-start method employed a thousand times before. Spiky melodies pulse as severely as anything found in a hundred Euro dance clubs. Any true heart or soul has been clipped away to make sure that each song clocks in at under four minutes—the ecstasy pills will wear off eventually, after all. Thank goodness that there’s room in the music industry for utilitarian and shiny fluff; that’s pretty much what makes up any major radio station’s entire playlist.
The lyrics are virtually all clichés and obvious statements. Attempts to be witty and sardonic fall flat; since they’re about hyperpower instead of detachment, it’s impossible not to believe them at face value. And the subjects skip right past irony and land at trivial. Can we make “edgy” anthems to both the joys and regrets of partying (“Can’t Stop Getting Wasted,” “Sex Has Made Me Stupid”)? Can we be “cool” by confronting/embracing the sentiment that some critics find them obnoxious (the title track)? Can we finally give atheists/agnostics the opportunity to rave (“I Don’t Have a God”)? Done. It’s the Euro-trash “standard”; really no worse than vapid American appeals, just alien to us.
But the European stereotypes exist for a reason. Germans have loved electronica since Kraftwerk flung open those doors thirty years ago. The French love their Euro-trashy exercises in style over substance in almost all forms of media. Brits are musical gods but personally are self-obsessed, egotistical complainers. They’re all chain-smoking, superior and rude. Stereotypes to be certain, but they’ve come about the same way Americans are blamed for…well, every lousy fad in the last forty years—kernels of truth, if waaaay too broad for true definition. Robots in Disguise seem to embrace their own plasticity the way so many other European bands are viewed. They show up to give us a good time and disappear before your tummy aches from the sugar rush.
Pre-packaged fun is difficult to endure, but easy to swallow upon first handout. Robots in Disguise could be a pretty good opening act—they’ll probably never master the climax but they’re foreplay professionals. All attitude, energy and half-joking sneers, they can get you going, but there’s no aftertaste. It’s gone in seconds. We’re in the Music Biz sums up their entire cheeky existence. It’s as if they’re so surprised that they might make it that they feel forced to pose instead of play.
The call-and-response vocal delivery makes them sound more immediate…and perhaps even dumber. There are “deep” statements in here (snicker), but this is all about the beats. After all, dance music need not make us think. It’s hard enough to remember footwork without having to think about how no one should be ripping off the spirit of Robots in Disguise (the laughably hypocritical theme of album closer, “Don’t Copy Me”). At a sheer visceral level, the rhythms and basslines in many of these tunes indeed are infectious. But is there a reason beyond that most basic reaction for such enthusiasm in goofy and/or ultra-obvious observations like “Tequila's made me stupid/The grass had made me stupid/Stupid, stupid, stupid” and “Shake your hands/Get ready for the crazy dance”?
Even at a mere thirty-four minutes, Music Biz overstays its welcome. The performance is essentially two-note: whether it’s fast or really fast, jokey or semi-serious, flashy or fluorescent, it is hollow and driven by the percussive force of serrated beats. The closest they come to going in a different direction is the synth-rock “Tears,” which borrows from the go-to musical inspiration of the last five years, Joy Division.
It’s almost painful to give this record a pass. In the after thought, I can’t believe I found it mildly entertaining during the first listen. Even the second had me nodding along on a couple of (admittedly brief) occasions. If they borrow from better bands, they can’t completely fail on a primal level, right? Even She Wants Revenge, the kings of recent ultra-derivative music, dropped a few really catchy tracks. Robots in Disguise could also be someone’s guilty pleasure, and although the guilt is certainly there, it would be hard to deny the pleasure part.
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