I’m not happy to say it, but Trans-Continental Hustle defeated me.
I made three separate good-faith efforts to get through it, but at the end of the day I just couldn’t make it more than halfway in. The record just grates on me. And that’s sad, because I’ve enjoyed Gogol Bordello in the past.
I have three theories on what might have happened. The first, and least likely, is that living in Brazil simply did something to Eugene Hutz. Are his rhythms a little off from too much capoera drumming? Did he spend too much time drinking at Carnival? Auteurs like Hutz are known to spiral into odd behavior and get sloppy with their work.
But I don’t think that’s true. More likely it’s a bit of burnout coupled with the transition to a major label. It’s a totally different process recording for the big boys; a lot of bands have changed completely making the shift, and not always for the bad (see HUM’s You’d Prefer an Astronaut). The simple fact is that big budgets make big pressures and force your creative hand in some situations. The real struggle is that this often comes right as a band’s creative surge is starting to wane after the great indie records that got them that contract (I’m looking at you, Ben Gibbard). So the transition record is often just not very good.
I’d believe that. But what really makes Hustle unlistenable is Rick Rubin. Remember when Rick Rubin made Licensed to Ill jump and jive and made South of Heaven seethe with unsuppressed fury? Well, that Rick Rubin is long dead. The undead monstrosity which produced this record in his name has created a sound that is so harsh, so shrill, so incredibly grating to the ears that it makes Minor Threat or Rage Against the Machine feel like chamber music. Yes, GB are gypsies so they need to feel energetic. Yes, they are punks so they need to feel aggressive. But seriously, this record sounds like being stabbed in the ear. It wouldn’t matter if the songs on Hustle were Imperial Bedroom; Rubin’s sonic cheese grater treatment renders anything that Hutz intended into bamboo needles shoved under your fingernails.
Final Grade: D. It’s possible that this is actually a good collection of songs under the production, and that uncertainty means I can’t fail it altogether. So fuck Rick Rubin and go listen to Super Taranta!.
Your Shitty Record Won't Review Itself 