Originall written by Jordan Campbell
Some bands simply can’t let their music speak for itself, and that’s usually a bad sign. They might need a carefully comprised uniform to act as a beacon, a tractor beam to pull in the wide-eyed and easily distracted. Maybe a gaudy photo cover to hammer home their gimmick. No, they can’t simply let the music breathe with it’s own lungs, and it they sure as hell can’t let it stand there naked. That would be disastrous. Because without all the cute accoutrement, their exploits would be exposed for what they are: vapid and plagarisitic barroom hackery.
Fuck it, though. It’s capitalism in action, is it not? If raiding a vintage costume shop and staging cute, Saxon-esque photo shoots will get you signed to Earache (yes, they’ve come to this, for those still keeping score), then by all means, do the damn thing.
And so the deed is done, the package complete: shrink-wrapped, stamped, and sealed. Never mind that there’s nothing inside. It’s the consumer’s problem now. Critics, in turn, are forced to assess the inherent value of a NWOBHM rehash that was built patently for short-term satisfaction, a quick paycheck, and a couple months’ worth of blowjobs. Sure, there’s a catchy (stolen) riff here, a spirited (stolen) bassline there, and sexy (stolen) guitar harmonies everywhere. And those screeched and belted vocals–vanilla and dispassionate as they may be–can certainly crack a fleeting, juvenile smile with their nods to “midnight vices,” “high rollers,” and “living for the night.” You know, excess. Indulgence. That’s what the 80’s were all about, were they not? Right? Yeah, whatever.
There’s nothing memorable here, nothing profound, nothing remotely worthwhile, which begs the question: whatever happened to The Genuine Article? Whatever happened to Accept No Substitutes? While a gritty, no-frills rock tribute can get the blood flowing when the mood strikes, costumed pomp and prepackaged puffery such as this will always ring hollow. These combined friviolties will roll off the cuff of your Members Only jacket like a few drops of spilled Hamm’s, only splash onto the bar floor and eventually become trodden scum on the bootheel of forward traffic. Hopefully, it’s almost time for last call.
