Dead Letters

Long ago, I was pen pals with Alison Mosshart. This was back
before she became the lanky, cigarette-devouring rock savior and
enigmatic face—usually blanketed beneath a matted sheet of black
hair—of the Kills. We didn’t have much in common, other than
being a pair of pudgy kids hidden under hoodies, but thanks to some
crossed-path meetings and mutual acquaintances (she fronted the
underappreciated Gainesville, Florida, pop-punk outfit Discount, and I
was neighbors with the trailer-residing couple who released Discount’s
albums in Encinitas, California), we ended up trading correspondences
back before email snuffed out the thrill of sending and receiving
handwritten letters. Much like our antiquated means of communication,
this seems a lifetime ago.

Following the splintering of Discount, Mosshart disappeared to
London, dropping off the grid long enough to completely reinvent
herself. She returned to the musical fold not as an art-punk kid, but
as a damaged supermodel exuding a confidence and voice that was years
beyond her previous incarnation. It was as if she had left the Florida
sun only to unearth an evil twin from the thick London fog.

Mosshart faked her death and got away with it, emerging as an
entirely new and improved personality. As far as fleeing, reinvention,
and pure escapism go, it would be hard to top this sort of
transformation from homely duckling to a graceful, if damaged, swan.
When she returned to the States in 2002 as the Kills she was an
entirely different person—book-ended by partner Jamie Hince and a
drum machine. It was inspiring: Exit the youthful punk-rock optimism,
enter a Royal Trux’d nihilism of emptiness, drugs, and fucking the pain
away. All this was capped by a slithering live show where Mosshart and
Hince shared a mic and a level of desperate intimacy that led to deep
fascination (Are they really going to fuck each other on the stage?)
for anyone willing to watch and listen.

And people did both. The Kills became UK media darlings in the
following years, a duo that kicked up a dust storm of celebrity and
controversy—Hince dates Kate Moss, Mosshart now fronts the Dead
Weather, playing the role of muse and bandmate to Jack White—that
has stretched across three full-length recordings (2003’s Keep on
Your Mean Side, 2005’s No Wow, and last year’s Midnight
Boom).

If Sid and Nancy were in the Chelsea Hotel with recording equipment
instead of syringes and knives, you’d get Midnight Boom, a
stumbling grasp at stability from a pair of lost souls. Hince and
Mosshart trade barbed vocals, their formerly minimal instrumental
backing showcasing a range not witnessed on previous albums. They may
not have become a full-fledged rock band, but for once the Kills sound
like something more than two shipwreck survivors left to a world of
nothing but each other.

Midnight Boom is a desperate recording of simple rock ‘n’
roll, one that works masterfully on songs like the sullen, hand-clapped
percussion of “Black Balloon,” “Alphabet Pony,” and the bombastic “Tape
Song.” The news is never good, but whatever message the Kills want
delivered is received loud and clear—no need to send that
letter.