Review

It's actually not bad and should prove eminently serviceable as they attempt to gain a foothold in the affections of the Americans (Nitzer Ebb and Adamski are among those who have done well over there in the slipstream of New Order and Depeche Mode). "Moldavia" is good, a stretched sub-DAF riff roasted by the blast of NASA rocket engines, as are the suppressed, Gregorian hues of "Untold". And "Neurobashing" is stripped and stark for maximum dancefloor efficiency. But these are additions to, rather than extensions of, what they've archieved previously.

Front's weakness are most evident when they attempt sinister ambience, as on "Trigger 2 (Anatomy Of A Shot)" or "Gripped By Fear", whereupon they fail to achieve the distinctive moods suggested in the titles with the tools at hand. Their methods and palate are cripplingly limited. Time and again they fall back on the same sonic methods - those juddery, pylon backbeats, those gnarled, muffled, cut-up muman shrieks down below, and Jean-Luc's feebly "ominous" vocals.

What is unforgivable about Front 242 in '91 is that they haven't done their duty as Futurists, reinvented themselves, declared themselves obsolete and metamorphosised to greet the future. The Studs loathe this album with the same virulent energy with which they first proposed Front 242. For, underneath all this relentless metallurgy and electric whiplash and stern imperatives lies, of all things, a hoary old chestnut - that nothing dates faster than Futurism.