Secret Machines

Secret Machines is a bit of a misstep, failing keep their languid, explorative tracks from growing dull. [Dec 2008, p.148]

If David Lynch were to direct a remake of the Victorian romance Wuthering Heights, he wouldn’t need to commission a soundtrack; Secret Machines have recorded it.

It's a workmanlike and often wearisome ambition that proves the record's undoing, which leaves The Secret Machines V2.0 sounding less the stadium-psych messiahs and more like a trio of very naughty boys.

They're sticking with bloated track lengths and overblown lyrics. Thankfully, they haven't lost their touch for thunderous rhythms or layered production, either.

When the lead is the guitar, the result is sometimes meandering but occasionally mind-blowing and never on the wrong side of good. Hand the lead to the vocals and bring on the yawns. [Fall 2008, p.97]

The NYC three-piece are a band playing to their strengths. [Feb 2009, p.113]

It may not contain anything as seismic as 'First Wave Intact,' from their debut "Now Here Is Nowhere," but the band's self-titled third album reasserts the Secret Machines identity whilst revealing a fragile underbelly.

On the new one, the drums still thunder and the space rock vibe is intact, but something is missing--and I’m not sure that something is Ben Curtis.

Secret Machines remain the same band responsible for 'Now Here Is Nowhere' and 'Ten Silver Drops,' which means the toughest tracks often still devolve into hypnotic grooves and motorik mutations, and the gentlest starts often lead to the most bombastic conclusions.

Established fans will respond with delight to the staccato wall-of-sound guitars; new listeners may not necessarily show the desired “Ooh, they’re so hard!” response.

Despite the band’s mechanical leanings, they’ve always been able to let emotion seep through the swell and walls of distortion and static; it’s a trait the band shares in common with few of their louder (current) contemporaries. But the opening half of the album is not powerful enough to convince the listener of much of anything.

The old fervour remains intact. In truth, their third LP holds few surprises. [Feb 2009, p.116]

Adding electronic gurgles to heavy, prog-rock power chords, The Secret Machines recalls Rush and Black Sabbath at one end of the sonic spectrum ('The Fire Is Waiting') and David Bowie’s spazzier, punk-era edge at the other ('Atomic Heels'). In between those far-flung atmospheric poles, the band proves they’re more than just the sum of their seamless influences.

['The Walls Are Starting To Crack'] is a refreshingly weird passage on a record that otherwise deviates little from the brawny but accessible psychedelia of the band's first two.

Eleven-minute closer 'The Fire Is Waiting' is a sub-Mogwai damp squib, but this album reaffirms not just what Secret Machines believe in, but what they're best at--making accessible prog with shiny buttons.

This is a familiar brew for the Secret Machines, but that doesn’t make it stale.

There are no embarrassing stabs at pop crossovers, no bitter jabs at the record industry. Just tuneful and accomplished, if somewhat anachronistic and faceless, BIG MOODY ROCK.

Songs remain huge, sitting just the right side of overblown, ornate but never delicate, as if hewn from stainless steel. [Feb 2009, p.93]

Perhaps due to the heavier sound, perhaps due to the departure of Ben Curtis, The Secret Machines doesn't pack much of a punch. [Fall 2008, p.78]