Love 'em or hate 'em, The Hives's Swedish rock tornado simply can't be ignored. They're so full of pomp and shit that you can practically see it spilling out from beneath their spats, but damned if they don't make just about every other band in the world look and sound like miserable tossers; they haven't been bitten by the political bug, they still don't want to be your friends, and their supercharged rock theatrics (and matching outfits) are bigger and bolder than ever.
In precisely thirty minutes, Tyrannosaurus Hives tramples legions of rock brats underfoot, all for the sheer pleasure of watching them slither through the muck. Scuzzy beyond belief, the album sounds as if the input plug on the ancient mixing board was caked with battery acid -- it's distorted to the hilt, and sounds all the more electrified for it. "Walk Idiot Walk" and "B is for Brutus" are simply unstoppable -- ravenous blasts of sizzling power chords and Howlin' Pelle Almquist's murderous ranting -- while "Diabolic Scheme" is the closest the band has ever come to balladry, and it's still a far cry from sending lighters aloft.
Tyrannosaurus Hives has hit garage rock's heart like a huge syringe of adrenaline, and even if it doesn't awaken the hibernating beast, its furious tempest is a blinding final gasp for a genre that has repeatedly rewarded mediocrity (how else do you explain Jet?).