Naughty Boys - Destiny Calls
After the diabolique bollock majestdickum that is/was the the tiswas pisspot-less episode of Spank I resolutely avowed that my mission of completely impartial, non-judgemental, cack-eyed, cloth-eared music-hack of indiscreet vitriol was to cleverly assert acerbically that no you're not the Electric Boys, not even the Bulletboys. Not just cos I'm sick of mentioning the bloody boys what deserve chav bulldogs be set upon them, but I mused on imploring for the love of John Sykes to save some money and barter for Tattooed Love Boys, or even Pretenders 2 with that track on, or hum a few bars of The Boys Are Back In Town or...you get the drift. Well, that's what I was gonna do, pondering my mirthless massacre at my workbench but well, oh I just did. The opening brace almost brought about slight return of rejoices that if you need proof in the pudding (or stew) plump your trust in a Swede, indeeds, though this is yet another notch on charisma-free cavern walls where soooo many of this current crop of classic rock crud scrape themselves off to go recording in their self-sanctifying air-conditioned conservative trattorias. I mean it's such that snide indie snifflers seem overly and esoterically sparkly - enuff to stretch seven secret Colombian airfields worth of incredulity about. Amazing. John Cusack got aboard the world is nigh conspiracy ship when there's such matters to contend with. By track three we're in (I would say sadly but...) such simpering slumber-sludge they fall into the slop marked 'deserving of a sledgehammering from Zeke' as it's simply manufactured, telegraphed tell-tale soporific plod with all the excitement and passion of a lobotomised sloth and thus at best it might resemble the Survivor of a Bonfire not Backyard Babies itching Alleycat Scratches with Faster Pussycat, or even having a bevvy over Bminors with Richie Sambora that can never lift the lingering odour of workmanlike showcase sores.