
New suits, new ’staches, new songs — same old vaudevillian showmanship,
same old mathematically precise eardrum molestation. At a sweaty, stinky,
crushd-tin-box (sorry, we still have Radiohead on the brain) Middle East
downstairs last night the Hives lived up to Howlin’ Pelle’s ridiculous
tongue-in-cheek third-person boasts — as they always do, even if the shtick
starts to wear thin somewhere around two-thirds of the way in.