Pitchfork

The most noticeable thing in the first few moments of Monochrome, is that-- after a few misguided comeback records-- Helmet v.2 now sounds a lot like the original model. The kudos for this return to sonic form go to engineer Wharton Tiers, the guy that midwifed the creation of Helmet's first two albums, Strap It On and Meantime. It helps, of course, that Page Hamilton has his hands all over the guitars on this album. Second guitarist Chris Traynor strapped on the bass for these studio sessions, bridging the gap between Frank Bello's exodus to rejoin Anthrax and former Jets of Brazil member Jeremy Chatelain finishing up other commitments. There's also a new drummer, the second since Helmet reconvened. That this new rhythm section fails to gel as well with the front of the group as the original pairing of John Stanier and Henry Bogdan is a sad fact, but ultimately immaterial. What matters most is, with Monochrome, Helmet is back to doing what they do best.

Caveats still apply, of course. For one, Hamilton sounds an awful lot like a 46-year-old on this record. His bark (available for your listening pleasure on "Swallowing Everything" and "Bury Me") used to be part drill sergeant, part drunk frat bro, and part Ozzy (pre-Rhoads). Nowadays, it's hoarse, shrill, and, worst of all, weak. That said, it does the job in the right situation, especially when he goes for (hopefully intentional) chuckles on "Brand New", screaming "Now I need! Somebody! Just like you! Somebody! I can talk to!" like a MySpace stalker. Hamilton's other limited modes of vocal expression are also used effectively-- his bored moan is a perfect fit for the title track, while his regular singing voice (nasal, sneering) works well on snotty know-it-all songs like "Money Shot" (about you-know-what) and "On Your Way Down" (also self-explanatory). Couplets like "Up to Venus, Mars, and Jupiter/ Man, your feet don't even touch the earth" also show that Hamilton's penchant for slappy lyrics remains intact.

Of course, basking in the glow of Hamilton's poetic muse takes a distant back seat to basking in the glow of that gorgeous guitar tone, the distinct razor-sharp sheen that made him a guitar gear god. It can't save a turgid overlong stinker like "Almost Out of Sight" from nearly ruining the record, but it goes a long way toward making this album more enjoyable than it has any right to be. Whatever magic Tiers worked in these sessions could probably be sold at medicine shows for a tidy profit. This album covers a fair amount of ground-- ranging from the pseudo-balladry of "Monochromatic" to "Howl", a skronky 40-second instrumental that lets Hamilton exorcise his inner Van Halen (or Derek Bailey)-- but still manages to cohere without sounding like a patchwork mess (like 2004's Size Matters). Some might take the title of the final track-- "Goodbye"-- to be a not-so-veiled hint that this is the end. However, with a new label footing the bill, an upcoming stint as the headliners for this year's Warped Tour, and a new album that revisit the group's glory days without resorting to crass nostalgia, there's a good chance that Hamilton could be getting his second wind.