Sex Slaves: Call Of The Wild
For the most part, the prevailing themes of sleaze rock songs – sex, drugs, booze, women, parties, punch-ups, million-dollar lawsuits – are hoodwinks, the hopeful daydreams of guitar-wielding ham‘n’eggers. Very few people actually live a life of hookers and blow. At least not successfully. And then there’s the Sex Slaves. Formed in NYC a decade ago, these die-hard sleazebeasts tour relentlessly, leaving a bloodied wake of shattered glass, broken hearts and blown-out eardums wherever they go. Naturally, their music reflects this nomadic, modern primitive lifestyle: most of their songs sound like back-alley fistfights, except for those that sound like pornos. Call Of The Wild, their fourth album, carries on in this fine tradition. It’s got songs about strippers and riffs like ‘83-era Mötley Crüe, and if it could, it would defile your daughter and piss in your pool. Sex Slaves are definitely not faking it. (7⁄10)
Suicide Bombers: Criminal
Risen from the ashes of Oslo murder-glam provocateurs Trashcan Darlings, the Bombers offer up an impressive collection of scruffy, street-glitter jams that sound like Hanoi Rocks, if Hanoi Rocks were teenage bullies from broken homes who specialised in blowing shit up. There’s a lot of nonsense (like a guitarist named Lazy Leather!), but the songs are scorching. (7⁄10)
Nightstalker: Dead Rock Commandos
The fourth album of brawling motor-rock from these Greek riff-tyrants. Anchored by the shirtless 70’s pipes of front-howler Argy, Nightstalker is all free-flowing doper-groove, and sky-high odes to cosmic love goddesses and fire-belching death kings. It’s like a black velvet poster of a werewolf biker gang that bursts out of your wall and drags you to hell. Far out. (7⁄10)
Snew: _What’s It To Ya _
Snew sound like every band in Decline of Western Civilization Part II at once: the goons in the hot tub, the guy from WASP having a nervous breakdown in his swimming pool, Ozzy ruining breakfast, even the girl who wins the ass-shaking contest and says she’s going to work on her “actressing”. Pure, uncut Hollywood slither rock, oozy and woozy. (6⁄10)
Orange Sunshine: Bullseye Of Being
It’s been a while since Den Haag astro-creeps Orange Sunshine last surfaced. I am assuming they were wandering around in the jungles of ‘Nam, looking for their lost souls. Bullseye Of Being is all stumbly fuzz and loopy ragas, a lethal dose of bleary-eyed next-level outlaw psychedelia. Bonus: all-white wax and label. Also, you can’t read the song titles unless you’re on acid. (8⁄10)
