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Listening to Low's new album, "Things We Lost in the Fire," it's easy to imagine what next week's gig in Harajuku will be like: They'll be sitting on stools, wearing sensible gray sweaters and won't be smiling much.
Low is an apt moniker. This minimalist Minnesota trio's sparse guitar sound is so lo-fi that you need a hearing aid to hear most of it and they sound as down as a depressive who's returned home to find his wife has run off with another woman -- and taken the dog, too.
You can't get much lower than Low. If you want to kill yourself, buy this record and stick it in a Discman and you'll have no trouble jumping in front of that rush-hour train. Low is music to die to. And you can't pay a band a higher compliment than that.
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