Pitchfork

On my list of bands most likely to record a concept album about creeping future dystopia, the Dirtbombs were not in the top 10. Yet here we have We Have You Surrounded, which, while featuring the same setup (two bass, two drums, one guitar), and the same knack for inventive cover versions, shifts focus ever so slightly toward cautionary science-fiction. The lyrics take a kaleidoscopic look at the slow decline of civilization, through such as the eyes of Alan Moore (the lyrics for "Leopardman at C&A" were taken from Moore's Songbook), militant and wasted northwestern youth (Dead Moon's "Fire in the Western World"), rebels on the run ("I Hear the Sirens"), and, uh, in French ("La Fin du Monde").

Which, in theory, should work out just fine, as the Dirtbombs were first and foremost a theoretical band. Every record was to work around a new concept and a different sound entirely-- garage punk, classic soul, "car-commercial" ready pop-rock (the bubblegum record still sadly postponed). With this, Collins and co. should be able to just line up the records from their collections that correspond with the theme of paranoia and put the pieces together. No sweat.

But with that distinctive instrumental lineup, that priceless fly-buzzer fuzz tone, and Collins wailing above it all, the Dirtbombs always sounded pretty much like themselves. Songs like "Ever Lovin' Man" won't get mistaken for anyone else, but this might be the first record where they make decisive leaps from their signature sound: Rather than becoming a new band, they simply shoot for being a more versatile one. It should be well within their grasp, but Surrounded was originally slated to be a five-song EP, and I have the sneaking suspicion that "Wreck My Flow" and "Pretty Princess Day" weren't among them, nor were odd transitions like "They Have Us Surrounded" or an eight-minute noise track. "Wreck My Flow" is a leaden litany that's like a garage-punk "We Didn't Start the Fire", and Collins sounds like he's being forced to record at gunpoint as he talk-sings through "Pretty Princess Day".

But there are curveballs that work, for sure: Sparks' "Sherlock Holmes" gets the breathless "Crimson and Clover" treatment, making it all the more seductive without erasing the trace of malice in the original ("Dogs bark and he knows their breed/ And knows where they went last night..."). And the band sticks to a lovingly familiar script on "Ever Lovin Man", where the band cries "yeaaah" before its cathartic chorus like the crowd at a rally race, and chimes in on the silly a capella spy riff on "Indivisible". Not only does it keep things light, they're moments when, perhaps more so than on any previous record, The Dirtbombs sound like a band of five musicians with distinct input, rather than the many arms of Mick.

In contrast, "Leopardman" seems too sober for the urgency of its lyrics, despite having a few choice dystopian images (including "turning CDs into wind chimes," to which longtime vinyl supporters like the Dirtbombs add another layer by claiming here.) "Race to the Bottom" is an aimless collage of laser noises and shortwave radios gone mad, sounding like the robots-fucking track hidden at the end of Odelay, but without the rhythm. "La fin du Monde", however, might be the prettiest Dirtbombs track yet, with the same lo-fi bluster but guitars that shimmer rather than scratch while Collins croons a lullaby-like melody in French.

The band mixing up the palette isn't a bad thing, and Collins, for all of his garage-rock pedigree, has always been a musical dabbler, not least in techno. But a transitional record? Now? After Jim Diamond left and they cleaned house in 2005 with the exhaustive compilation If You Don't Already Have a Look, the pessimist in me thought they were pretty much done. But they came back swinging, and while they swing a little wildly, there are enough safe plays here balanced with new strategies. So what if the best track is a cover, when they're one of the best and cleverest covers acts running (and most of their originals careful tributes besides)? The band's intermittent release schedule just makes them an inflatable clown you can't really knock down; all part of the luxury of only pulling your band together when the fancy strikes you-- or, more importantly, only when you want to.