
This is Rage Against the Machine.
This is also rage against the machine.
That's all I needed to say.
Rage Against The Machine - Down Rodeo (from Evil Empire)

According to Wikipedia, 'shikari' means 'hunter' in Persian, Hindi, Nepali, Urdu and Punjabi. Which suggests that with a band name like Enter Shikari, these Brit synthcore chaps are positioning those searing songs of shriektronica against a bushy jungle backdrop, inviting us to conjure up images of some khaki-donning heroic dude scouring through mosquito-infested Borneo in search of that vicious creature that is terorrising those peaceloving villagers at night.(Puts on headphones. Plays 'OK, Time For Plan B'. Four minutes and 54 seconds later, song ends. Puts down headphones. Picks up pet Malayan Tapir. Brings her to Babyland, buys her a fuchsia bib, and a pair of pleated socks. Reads The Complete Adventures of Curious George to her. Puts her to bed.)They're right. Totally rawks man.
You know what's the best part about discovering a new band? It isn't the surge of satisfaction you get afterwards when they go big. It isn't the snarky finger-pointing you get to do when someone tells you "Have you heard of...?" It isn't even the incomparable burst of excitement that envelopes your toenails when you discover they're playing at a festival that you're attending.
I am convinced that British rappers have zero ability when it comes to picking a name. I mean, they've got the bump and grime down pat, and the consonant-dropping flow that will always garner critical drool on all ends of the Atlantic, Pacific, Arctic, Indian, Caspian and Mordorific. But c'mon: The Streets? Plan B?? Sway???


Post-2005, any band starting with the letter "C", and with the words "Your" and "Hands" in their moniker, are begging to be sacrificed on the altar of unfair comparisons and impending lawsuits. But New Zealand dance punkers Cut Off Your Hands aren't simply saying yeah on the back of hype-fueled abandon, yet. They've done the hard yakka over the past few months, going cross-Tasman and from one end of the Atlantic to the other, all for the sole purpose of preening the global hipsterati to their Kiwified version of Franz Ferdinand.
Here's a confession: I'm an absolute sucker for doll-faced female singer-songwriters. Not really flash on the Tristan Prettyman-type bombshells, or the Alice Cooper lookalikes. But you could deck Rosie Thomas in a pink pomegranate suit, or uncover a scandal involving Regina Spektor and a mid-morning romp with three Greek preachers at The Jungles of Zamondo Music Fest, and chances are I'll still lap up the music like a nobbyless noodlehead.
Imagine with me. You've got a huge-ass cannon.