By Melissa Fossum
By Lauren Wise
By New Times
By Amanda Savage
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Troy Farah
By New Times
So the myth of The Kills is explained by the very VV herself, a nice enough woman formerly known as Alison Mosshart. She's standing outside of a bar in Denver, on a rare night off in the midst of their debut tour, a tour they booked themselves.
"We travel around in a little car, and it's really inexpensive and really fun and we can handle everything," says VV of the duo's travels. "We split the workload and it's a lot of stuff. A lot of answering the phone and a lot of going crazy and going to truck stops in the middle of the night and spending 35 dollars to use the Internet trying to get everything done."
The Kills are brand spanking new and tired of the fucking press. They are not at all upset that you have never heard of them. At this point you really couldn't possibly have, unless you've been privy to their modest output, or lived in England and happened to have caught them live.
They have no plans for a glitzy promotional campaign; they are content to drive across the U.S. in a rented Saturn with the cell phone turned off, playing little clubs to unknowing audiences and hoping things grow from there. While most bands in their position would do almost anything to generate excitement about their music, The Kills nearly had to be bribed even to get on the telephone.
When asked why they disdain interviews and the idea of self-promotion, VV opines, "I wouldn't tell anyone to do anything. I totally am not going to try to sell myself to anyone. . . . I think it's just basically doing whatever we want and not really caring about the consequences of not really caring."
VV further explains the absurdity of their situation: "We get all this fantastic advice from people about how to become famous." She adds, "It's so funny. It's so amazing. We walk out of those meetings and we're just laughing. It's like, thank you very much for all the drinks."
This kind of haughtiness and fear-of-success posturing in most bands would spell disaster, but this English/American duo, Hotel of England, VV of the States, currently based in the U.K., seem to be getting a minor buzz despite their best efforts.
Since The Kill's first show in a tiny London club on Valentine's Day this year, the band released its first EP Black Rooster in late May on Dim Mak records. The small Santa Barbara label is also home to Pretty Girls Make Graves, the new project from the Murder City Devils' Derek Fudesco. In Europe, The Kills have signed to Domino Records UK, which handles such American indie heavyweights as Stephen Malkmus, Mouse on Mars and Elliot Smith, among others.
When asked how this brand-new band with no desire to do anything but create music and play out was so quickly signed to a label with such an impressive roster, VV breaks it down in one long flurry: "We burned one CD for our roommate and he worked in a record store [the Rough Trade store in London] and he started playing it down in the basement and everyone working in the shop went totally crazy and started playing it upstairs and then people just started walking in off the street and that's absolutely how it happened."
Soon after the recording, The Kills played an in-store at Rough Trade and "just by chance, like, record label people and A&R people walked in off the street and heard it and started calling and it got really, really messy, and we just decided to leave the country," VV says. "I feel really lucky about it."
While this story is enough to kill the dreams of hardworking bar bands worldwide, it is hard to deny that The Kills seem to have the goods. Black Rooster rocks from the first second of the first track, with a wonderfully dirty, sexy, fuzzy guitar noise and naughty vocals. While painfully short, featuring about 12 minutes of original music, with a Captain Beefheart cover, as well as a spoken-word ode to gum, it reinforces music's current love affair with the "duo." This recording also fits in snugly with the current rock revival; The Kills would not sound out of place in rotation with such ubiquitous and oft-referenced figures as the White Stripes and the Hives.
The lack of traditional instrumentation, whatever that may be, forces the guitar/voice/drums combination to fill the gaps, which the musicians do swimmingly. Both members play fuzzed-out guitars, with Hotel manning all the spare but powerful drumming. The guitars and vocals loop hypnotically around the backbone beats and are colored nicely with sporadic bass, keyboards and random noises. While Hotel ably sings one of the tracks, his vocals work best when his voice is a complement to VV's. The whole recording is imbued with dynamic sexual tension between the music and VV's vocals.