Pitchfork

Put your hands down, I'll get to all the questions about the Oxes' new album in just a second. Before this little farce goes any further, you've all heard about the "storm" of "controversy" surrounding the Oxes' original album art for Oxxxes. Oh, you haven't? Well, it was a joke, perpetrated by the band and record label in a well-planned bid for publicity. The real joke is that it worked. Put out some fliers and postcards exposing some genuine Ox dick and a hot scenester chick, next thing you know you've got the sexually frustrated indie geeks worked up in a frenzy of sweat and masturbation. Kind of brilliant. Also, kind of embarrassing. I find it a little hard to believe that Baltimore, the hometown of John Waters, was up in arms over the various sexual exploits taking place on the original cover (still available on 'collectable' vinyl!). About the only good things to come out of this manufactured controversy were some entertaining signs from the 'protest photos' on the CD cover reading SARCASM DOES NOT EQUAL IRONY and OXES SUCK COXES.

I bring this up because this sort of despicably lame publicity stunt should immediately worry any sort of media savvy consumer (which, of course, you've all proven yourselves to be by coming 'round this hairy old website of ours). This ranks right up there with stunts like Bono going on a "fact finding" mission to Africa with the Secretary of the Freakin' Treasury, or Elvis "dying." And it's not like the Oxes even need this kind of help. Every single review of Oxxxes spends at least a paragraph on this (I win by wasting two), which just means less time spent discussing their patented brand of full-throttle metallic math rock.

But maybe that's just to avoid the task of trying to funnel this sort of wordless aural acupuncture into text-- it just doesn't translate. Describing the Oxes' compositions for two guitars and some industrial strength drums as "instrumental" trivializes them. Regular rock bands break the pace of an album with an instrumental for a lark; the Oxes, in the grand tradition of the luminaries of Don Cab, make a valiant effort at instrumental communication. Simply calling it "math rock" isn't much good, either. In the immortal words of Mr. Waits, the content of Oxxxes is harder than Chinese algebra, and in every possible way. They know when to let the passive intellectualism of math (or, in the case of the Natalio Fowler and Marc Miller's smoldering guitar interlacing, calculus) give way to playful Metal God flourishes, lest things become too academic. Like a cathedral constructed entirely out of a monolithic slab of poured concrete, Oxxxes is simultaneously complex, stylized structure and dense, dense, dense.

So instead of talking about the album, the live show talk gets trotted out. Everything nice that's ever been said about the Oxes' live histrionics is truer than true; they do take full advantage of their wireless kits and put on a fantastic show. The biggest problem with Oxxxes, aside from being just not quite as fun as their self-titled debut, is that even when played at organ-rupturing volumes, it doesn't give the listener anything to latch on to like a guy barreling through the audience with the intent to cause bodily harm does. "Boss Kitty" kicks it out Helmet-style in the opening moments for some good old-fashioned, tongue-in-cheek fun; the exultant rhythmic shifts and tricks of "Half Half & Half" spark precision riff frenzy hot enough to burn the song down to its foundation. But they certainly don't build the kind of fire that made Don Cab such an institution, and god help me, I can't even sing along! That's not to say I can't enjoy lots of instrumental music; I just expect more from it than lyricless rock.

Put it this way: Oxes are not the Autechre of rock and roll. This is an album you can throw on for shits and giggles, if that's your thing. The blistering guitar work on Oxxxes doesn't quite live up to the standards they've set for themselves, but it's sick hott and sharp enough to split the atom, not to mention a hell of a lot more fun than atomic fission. But without vocal help, the visuals of a live performance, or anything beyond mutating time signatures, this album loses a little something that it can't quite replace.