We all know how kitsch works. The wink and the nod, the teeth bared in an all-too-knowing smile: the little assurances that we're In On It. Protestations abound-- "I just like the music!"-- but haven't done much to lift the stench from disco and heavy metal after they've been dragged through the ghetto of ironic appreciation. You might have a white belt in your closet, or a Poison tape on your dash, but at what point do you find yourself with the aging hipsters in the back of some stagnant bar? As psychologists, Patrice Carrié and Jean-Philippe Freu might be able to tell us, if they weren't the ones spinning the wheels of the fetish machine.

They are << Rinôçérôse >>: shrinks by day, purveyors of shrink-wrapped dance music by night. In the wake of Daft Punk, France has leaked out a whole slew of retro hucksters. Of course, the promotional nut-jobbing you'll read on the net does what it can to distinguish the daft funk of << Rinôçérôse >> from that of the helmeted househeads par excellence. The former are from far away in little Montpellier, you see, and they've revitalized the dance world using the one instrument you'd never expect-- the guitar. Surprise! They're only following Blur's "Boys and Girls" by about seven years, not to mention their own countrymen Phoenix (who are far better at kitschy revisionism, by the way).

They call their second full-length Music Kills Me, fittingly enough. The first time I heard it, I thought it'd been composed posthumously, in the way that Miles Davis' Doo-Bop was pieced together after he'd passed away. "Le Rock Summer" kicks off with some upbeat bongos-- yeah, it's going to be painful like that. The duo tear pages from Giorgio Moroder's fakebook, yet end up with an appallingly stale string sound. They must think that guitar vamps somehow make things lively, but the wanky improv renders every moment unbearable. Disco inferno, indeed.

At least the opener's an instrumental. The title track nabs Duran Duran's lead riff from "Hungry Like the Wolf" and features some mildly interesting acidic synthwork. Then we're graced with the strained platitudes of Emmanuel Djob: "When I'm feeling alone, nothing gets me like music!" Please try and imagine it repeated ad nauseam, sung with the conviction of Dave Matthews at his most constipated. This song is so square it makes Huey Lewis sound hip.

"It's Time to Go Now!" pops open a canned flute sample and loops it as the sole melody for three minutes. It's a flute! It's a loop! It's a flute it's a loop it's a flute it's a loop-- say it out loud. That's the cadence of every generic house rhythm << Rinôçérôse >> sets down. Yet the liner notes list legions of live contributors, from brass players to percussionists. It's clear a new record has been set for antiseptic, inhuman songwriting. Cassius suddenly has hope that there's life after 1999, and Air have a chance to clean up after their 10,000 Hz shitstain.

It gets worse. "Lost Love" incorporates elements of "M" by the Cure, but an obnoxious chorus ("You'll fall in love with somebody else tonight") keeps cycling through the song, bastardizing 60s soul and leaving the mood more fruity than gloomy. Their turn towards the dark side comes later, on "Professeur Suicide," which attempts to breed porno-flick funk with deep house. The singer makes light of it all with one snide, breathily repeated line: "Suicide." Edgy! Right-wingers everywhere cower as another argument for euthanasia is born.

To be fair, the previous album Installation Sonore was supposedly much better, and fans lament the passing of their unique sound. There's still traces of it, as on "No, We Are Not Experienced," which begins softly but then builds into an intense, psychedelic peak. But that was then, and this is shit. The rest of the album descends into easy-listening shopping-mall chic; even Dimitri from Paris wouldn't mix it into one of his sets. Like the painting on the cover of Jean-Philippe's red sportscar, << Rinôçérôse >> is flashy and slick and trying far too hard to be haute couture. Or is Music Kills Me is a concept album about the death of art in an age of artifice? Do you really want to be the subject of their psychology experiment? If so, this is your summer album-- all the clichés from French pop and house music collected in one shiny package.

-Christopher Dare, May 22nd, 2002