FOR MUSIC of any genre, repetition is a trap an artist can’t afford to fall into. Alas, if The Day is My Enemy is anything to go by, The Prodigy are a wild animal writhing as it’s back legs are caught in some sort of bear trap. While their 2009 album Invaders Must Die embraced diversity, The Day is My Enemy throws ketamine fuelled EDM in the face of a listener like a monkey with its own faeces.
It’s important to remember that we’re only two years away from the 20th anniversary of the bands seminal album The Fat of the Land. While there will be some incredible shows to mark this event, the band are no doubt already in preparation for them, The Day is My Enemy is a poor warm up to such a monumental event. The Fat of The Land had an aura around it; something frightening. Tracks like ‘Smack My Bitch Up’ and ‘Firestarter’ were, and still are, frightening, yet so exhilarating. Nothing on The Day is My Enemy lives up to that; the songs barely reach the standard ‘Stand Up’, ‘Omen’ or ‘Take Me To The Hospital’ from Invaders Must Die.
If we’re talking about auras, we might as well address the world of The Day is My Enemy. A layman might say that this album is too loud, too aggressive, too rave-y. There’s nothing wrong with being loud, rave-like or even aggressive. Club music can be really good, as The Prodigy have proved in the past. But The Day is My Enemy is more like the musical equivalent of being started on by a sweaty, topless, drugged up raver in some club in Zante. It’s irritating, you don’t want to particularly want to be around it and it gets in your face a lot.
But as I stated at the start of this review, the main problem lies in repetition. The album starts promisingly enough, with the title track that’s actually pretty decent. Predictably it all goes downhill from there. ‘Nasty’ isn’t terrible, but then isn’t something I’d really listen to after the first time. ‘Ibiza’ shows just how much the band has changed over the last few years. It’s a pitiful cry to appeal to the young audiences that crowd into the clubs every Saturday night, with Sleaford Mods leering over the top of some beats.
To be perfectly honest, it’s hard to comment on the rest of the album. Why? Because it all sounds the same. There, I said it. And at 14 tracks long this album is MASSIVELY bloated. I found myself wishing it would end so I could go and listen to Courtney Barnett. If anything, this should be a sign to the band that maybe it’s time to move on; dissolve the project and go on to something else. At the end of it all, the day isn’t The Prodigy’s enemy; it’s themselves. In an apparent attempt to reinvent their music, they’ve created a bland, bloated, messy album. Yeah, it’s loud, but really, who gives a shit?
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