There are storm clouds looming just over the horizon, kids, and that can only mean one thing. Legend has it that when the planets come into a very careful misalignment, and the economic climate is just so, it's possible for one of those seminal, gone-but-not-forgotten punk bands of yesteryear to rise from the ashes. And now, as the mighty, infinite cosmos would have it, it's Wire's turn to have a go at resurrection. It's a risky prospect-- one that so often detracts from the legacy of legends-- but if they succeed, they prove themselves beyond any talent we could ever have conceived they originally harbored, because to re-enter the rock-making fray after 11 years of silence spells certain doom for anyone except the truly mighty.

If you're acquainted with any Wire beyond "Eardrum Buzz" or "Outdoor Miner" from some awkward punk compilation, feel free to play through, but as minority whip for my Rock Historians Union local 154, I'm obliged to inform the uninitiated. When punk first crossed the Atlantic and crash-landed in England, Wire hit the ground running, and as the flag-bearers for the artier end of the movement, they strip-mined pure gold from its crusty veins while scores of imitators simply half-assed it Sex Pistols-style. Pink Flag, to this day one of the finest statements the genre ever produced, was followed by the more experimental 154 and Chairs Missing, proving that Wire had eclipsed the limitations of mere punk. But rather than burn themselves in effigy as many of their contemporaries seemed content to do, they soon bowed out, claiming they'd plain run out of ideas. It was a move so tasteful it's a wonder that more deserving bands haven't done it (I'll give you a second to think of twenty).

Of course, Wire didn't completely heed their own advice, coming back from 86-91 to be swept along in the tail-end of the new wave riptide. But for better or worse, after more than a decade's absence, Wire has fired a warning shot of the coming onslaught, and they call it Read & Burn. By its second track, Read & Burn had far surpassed my expectations. This is indeed the Wire we all know and love, but not exactly as they are known and loved. Here, they've cultivated a sound as lean and raw as anything off even Pink Flag (like they decided to forget their instruments all over again to get a fresh start), but where there their old songs had a minimal sterility, the hooks on this album drip with a wicked venom. Maybe I'm just a sucker for a sneering cockney accent, but the nasty vocal tone and angry, droning guitar buzz employed on most of these six tracks comes as a pleasant surprise; old men that they are, what a shock that they can still summon teen rage on a whim. Any vestiges of their old electronic forays have been mostly abandoned, and they take it to the streets with nothing but the basic elements of rock: guitars, bass, and drums. The newer, more aggressive Wire seems like the right tack for the boys from across the pond, and they've warmed to the role capably, cutting through all eighteen minutes of this EP like an industrial-strength arcwelder through a tub of Parkay.

It's comforting to know that beneath it all, though, the same vital, driving energy that Wire has always had forms the foundation of this release. After ten years, "I Don't Understand" seems just like a more forceful version of "Brazil," right down to the clanging bass and spitfire vocal delivery. There are echoes of "Reuters" under the screeching assault of "Comet" (albeit echoes of a much, much faster version). Fundamentally, Wire's minimal approach is still present in the arrangements, even if it's a little harder to detect due to the single, blistering tempo of most of these cuts.

"Germ Ship" shows up about ten minutes in and immediately shifts the feel of the record, however briefly. The bass is set apart from the frantic grind of the guitar work, which relaxes things ever so slightly before the disturbing vocals come in. Whispered as faintly and insidiously as a death sentence before the chorus shows up to pull the lever, the track stands out from the pack on vocal strength alone. It's excellent, though admittedly, it's also the least Wire-y offering presented. For those die-hards, they've included "In the Art of Stopping," which almost approaches the ultimate paragon of Wire's career, "Ex-Lion Tamer," in sheer anthemic power.

Yep, Read & Burn is still Wire, and without even retreading the past. Instead, they've kept much of their essential Wiriness and filtered it through the post-punk filter of years to arrive at sort of a hybrid. It's not going to win them a place in the hearts of Wire fans who can't handle a little change, but if not for a need for change, why else did Wire break up in the first place?

-Eric Carr, July 15th, 2002