Pitchfork

If revival acts ran the world, we'd all still be searching for the wheel. Now, some of these bands are great at what they do-- if we were ever to eventually discover the wheel, after all, you can bet it would be the roundest goddamned wheel humanity had ever known-- but tail-chasing can only go so far. So in hindsight, is it that surprising that Wire's two Read & Burn EPs from last year marked such a successful return after a decade-long hiatus? Simultaneously resisting the cop-out of cannibalizing the sound of their classic late-70s material, and dodging any self-conscious stab at avant-garde, Wire sound nearly as essential now as they ever have. Who ever said comebacks were tough? All it takes is a preternatural sense of musical trends and history, a cunning knack for timing, and the willingness to completely reinvent yourself.

So what the Hell is this, Colin? Bruce? Send? Here I am, doing my best to talk up Wire's tireless desire to innovate (which, regardless of any lingering ambivalence to the merit of their 80s output, is near-indisputable), and you guys go and release this in lieu of the anticipated Read & Burn 03 installment. Concealing a scant four new tracks in the midst of just above half the material from the prior two EPs, Send feels a little, uh, unnecessary. The album fails to even meaningfully compile 01 and 02, ditching some of those discs' most potent buzz-punk tracks, instead replacing them with a couple of stiff, diluted cuts that surely wouldn't be equipped to stand on their own. In a bizarre twist, the whole becomes far less than the sum of its parts; less than anything close to a new album, less than even a new EP, and certainly less than Wire has proven themselves capable of.

That said, this record could only be seen as a false move in comparison to the standards they've so brilliantly set for themselves; in isolation, Send still possesses much of the fury, malevolence, and crushing immediacy that had all the kids talking about them again in the present tense. The martial anthems reprised here are no less vicious for sitting on the shelf a year; the guttural bile-spitting, robo-hypnotic snare simplicity, and guitars as head-rattlingly violent as a boxing match between a power sander and a jackhammer-- it's all as sharp as ever.

Those who've yet to know the power of the new EPs will marvel at the subliminal paranoia of "Nice Streets Above" or rapid-fire metal blast of "Comet". These folks may also take some comfort in the vintage melody-making of "The Art of Stopping", though the sheer authority of Bruce Gilbert's speak-shouts and the grinding waves of feedback on "Spent" will humble them. The content of Gilbert's barking is unclear beyond keeping the drive alive, but that's not important-- his tone is crystal, and it demands obedience.

In truth, anyone who's enjoyed the Read & Burn series to date will probably be awed by all that stuff, too-- the only difference is the slight, bitter pang of regret they'll experience when the gradual eruption of Send's (and 02's) epic closer "99.9" quiets, and they wake to the realization that "Raft Ants" and "Trash/Treasure", the finest moments on 02, are nowhere to be found on the album's tracklist. Sadder still, the new material left in their stead just twists the knife. The dull claustrophobia of "Being Watched" and the even duller "Half Eaten", a brief, pounding instrumental that might as well be "Raft Ants Lite"-- all the repetition, half the nuance-- shouldn't have made the cut. Neither track is particularly objectionable, but that does little to remedy the fact that better songs were sidelined for them.

The other two fresh cuts take up some of the slack, for what it's worth. The ominous, confrontational tone of "You Can't Leave Now" slows Send to a crawl before a distorted, beatific refrain offers momentary redemption, but the only truly impressive addition to this album is "Mr. Marx's Table". Colin Newman's voice is carefully, gracefully restrained, distorted just enough to be slightly rendered unclear; it offers mystery and an uncertain happiness even as he admits (or informs) that "It's too late to pray." It's a beautiful counterpoint to the vague malaise that hangs over not only the pulsing guitar drone that accompanies it, but the rest of the album, too, standing in particularly strong relief against the largely limp new offerings.

If Send is to be your only exposure to these guys this century (so far), it's worth it-- even though they've outdone themselves at pretty much the same album in the past couple of months. Wire's proven not once, but twice, that they'd rather disappear entirely than even consider doubling back on themselves, but nevertheless, after thirty-odd years of barreling forward, this is, if not a step backwards, something equally alien: a hesitation.