Review: The Hives “Barely Legal”

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Every Sunday, The Hard Times returns and reviews a remarkable album from the past. This week, we take a look at The Hives’ debut album, “Barely Legal,” which helped the band break into the garage rock revival scene of the early 2000s.

I write this against my will. I have begged the editors of The Hard Times to recuse me from this review, due to the extremely personal nature of my relationship with The Hives. But, to my dismay, I was told I had to write it because apparently all of our other writers are currently “in jail” for “crimes” and the judge said my colleagues were “scum not worthy of good society”, whatever that may be. that means.

They released the same shit last month when it was someone’s turn to do a 3,000 word POD retrospective.

It all started in the spring of 2003, when I was a senior in high school and had just invited Katie Amberson to prom. In retrospect, Katie wasn’t necessarily a trap. In fact, with her greasy jet black hair and ghostly pale complexion, she kind of looked like a cross between Meg and Jack White. But I was young and in love, and it was fashionable at the time to look like the ghost of a Pep Boys mechanic.

To prepare for the big day, I headed downtown and picked out a striking black and white tuxedo (which I thought would match Katie’s lifeless paleness perfectly). I was so excited about my purchase that I walked out of the store in a tuxedo and started walking the streets, looking to turn heads.

Just then, rather terrifyingly, a battered van pulled up a few yards away. To my amazement, four rowdy Swedes stumbled across wearing the exact same style of tuxedo! They glared at me, shouted drunken insults, and threw me into the vehicle.

Now I don’t speak a word of Swedish, but from what I’ve pieced together over the ensuing years, their bassist had left them behind when he left the band that morning to take a pitching job. meatballs at IKEA. Seeing a boy in a tuxedo like me walking around, they naturally thought, “Hey, this guy is already 80% of the way there. It’s just fucking bass. Let’s take it off!

So the next six years of my life were spent as a touring bassist for The Hives. Much like this review, it was a cruel and unusual punishment imposed on me with no regard for my well-being. Please, dear reader, please free me from this ungodly burden. Don’t force me to keep writing about this group.

And don’t even think about asking me about the four years I inadvertently spent as lead singer of The Vines.

Score: 2 out of 5 Swedish meatballs

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