S.E.X. Department - Rock N Roll Suicide
Ok so they put an extra three seconds into thinking up their police outfit image but surely CC Deville doesn't need any help to piss on what paltry legacy Poison have/had. Yes, in this parallel dimesnion where trash-rock templates are traded in school playgrounds like football sticker books and cut-out-and-keep stereotypes of eighties hair-metal frogs are collected on backs of cereal boxes CC is an evil scientist responsible for this one-man clone army. But, the great twerp couldn't even inject any personality into this incarnation, never mind any other slanderous inferences. My imagination is aroused only so far as to relish the thought of what would have happened to the poor old dust-mite if he'd have walked into the sessions for I Remember You, which is what the power ballad by bumblers Back My Uniform sounds like. Sadly SD is actually a great deal better than much befuddlesome dreck that comes out the constipated colon of the curious escalation of cock-rot rock but still makes Brett Michaels seem like a genius. Hell, it makes Vince Neil seem soulful. If Chris Holmes pissed on their tour bus then they'd maybe get a column inch in National Enquirer, though it'd more likely be tears of hysterical laughter at Wasted In Texas's limp 'homage'. So, maybe you don't need Stax out of stack-heeled kak but until something contains at least a smudge of the effervescent excitement of Talk Dirty To Me, Love Drag Years or Girls, Girls, Girls then it's goodnight and good luck gang. There's nary a nasal hair of amusement here, all tongue and no cheek, what there is amounts to Sexy Cab sounding more like 'Sexy Cavities', perhaps analagous to the whole thing being like the old cliche of chat-lines helmed by senior citizens in place of the screaming for more teen-whore like a stuck recording of Christine Sixteen. Beyond pastiche. File under piles of other pap.