Placebo, Meds

In a society where crunk is the style of a song and American Idols reign supreme, one can’t help but wonder how far rock needs to progress in order to maintain its relevance. For those who’ve been keeping score, the game’s not going well. Hip-hop infuses our slang and our style, flavors our dancing, and is nearly synonymous with marketing schemes (has anyone not seen Snoop in a phone ad?). Plus, nearly anything subversive can pass for rock — just put on some leather or visit Hot Topic. Gone are the days of piss and bravado, startling ideas, and decadent ways. Today rock is merely a stone on the floor, recycled prog clunkers, flaccid Matchbox 20, or the lame Kiss reunion tour. Put simply, little that is modern stands for rock these days, does something new and does it alone.

Enter Placebo, three brooding romantics with some shit on their minds. With their first studio release in three years, Meds finds Placebo in the unlikeliest of places: the bona fide rock record. Here is a batch of songs served up raw, without the fixings. Cast off are the pretenses and heavy synthesizers; every sound on the album is scaled back to the basics. From the use of piano to heavyweight mixer Flood (of U2 and Smashing Pumpkins fame), Placebo departs from the familiar territory showcased on 2003’s ultra-successful Sleeping with Ghosts, and instead lay themselves bare, finding a new sound in the process that may just be what rock’s been missing. As frontman Brian Molko put it in a recent interview with the band’s label, “We allowed space for the songwriting to shine through rather than show up how clever we were… We were going for simplicity rather than elaboration.”

But the album does more than simply rock. On Meds, Placebo takes us to the core of the human condition, where we learn of sordid lives played out to a beat. The songs, like the characters, are naked and open. Like the topless model cowering in the album insert, they are vulnerable to our judgment, and perhaps even taunt it. Meds tells stories of life at a slant — alienated loners and love gone sickly awry. Drugs are the cure and sex is salvation, but only until the lights flicker on.

Fierce guitars, pulsating rhythms, and a tight production (thanks to Goldfrapp producer Dimitri Tikovoi) lend Meds a vicious yet polished feel. Most notably, though, the album finds Molko self-assured in every role he assumes. Whether playing a battered lover, in the haunting ballad “Pierrot the Clown,” or a cringing addict, in “In the Cold Light of Morning,” Molko has the tenacity and skill to breathe life into his harrowing songs. The album is not all lows, however. Expect “One of a Kind,” with its catchy percussion, to become the anthem of subversive kids everywhere and “Song to Say Goodbye” the theme for Dr. Phil’s guests.

Should Placebo choose to stay on this path, ripping out their hearts to the pulse of guitars, they’ll take rock in the direction in which it needs to go. Regardless of where this quixotic and steadily brilliant band eventually finds itself, however, this is one dose of Meds you won’t want to miss.