Classic Rock


- By Sleazegrin­der

The Erotics Let’s Kill Rock ’N Roll SELF-RELEASED

The enduring beauty of The Erotics is that they make rock’n’roll for the people. All the people.

Everybody, from the most dim-witted, beer-wasted suburban strip-mall Romeo to the snarliest of leather-bound, coke-crazy, Thunderswo­rshipping

urban hep cats, will undoubtedl­y want in on the explosive rock action of Let’s Kill Rock ’N Roll and its cadre of fist-fighting, high-voltage sleaze metal anthems.

Recorded live in studio with a clutch of crazed fans pounding on the walls, ripping out chunks of ceiling and generally acting like rabid animals, this is literally as authentic and raw as rock’n’roll gets. Snotty headbanger­s like Head Of

The Low Class and Lie My Way To Hell gulp the Erotics’ tried-and-true toxic cocktail of 80s cock-rock injected with chaotic punk energy, but it’s the catchy, Alice Cooper-y, hilariousl­y nihilistic title track that really sells this album. The whole thing is a swaggering, overwhelmi­ng monster. And, incidental­ly, it might be the best album they’ve done in a decade. ■■■■■■■■■■

The Flytraps Wild Card


Finally, after a flurry of singles and EPs, the debut album from LA’s femme-ferocious Flytraps is here, And it’s everything you’d want it to be, an absolute haymaker of blood, bruises, burned bridges, smeared eyeliner and sleazy, takeno-prisoners rock’n’roll. It’s got hooks, it’s got flash. It’s like The Sweet reinvented as a stiletto-wielding teenage girl gang out for bad fun. Fairly magnificen­t. ■■■■■■■■■■

Dirty Cheetah Never Too Late


Wild, feral destructor­ock from Montreal that arrives swinging and does not let up until you’re a pile of eviscerate­d mush. The guitars splatter and unravel - think greasers and freak power, think Dead Boys, think Detroit Rock City, all filtered through the shaky fingers of teenage drug abusers – and there’s much shouting and speed-punk mayhem involved. Satisfacti­on pretty much guaranteed. ■■■■■■■■■■

Dirty Denims Ready Steady Go


If you can squint a little and think back to that gorgeous, long-lost world we used to live in – the one where you’d turn on the radio, tune in to favourite channels and your brain would be periodical­ly blown into a million tiny pieces by some thunderous, soul-shaking stadium rock that rattled the walls and raised your blood pressure – well that’s exactly what this album is. ■■■■■■■■■■

Gentle Ballads For The Simple Soul


Through the hazy green plumes of smoke, you can detect rumbles of hopelessly obscure NWOBHM, 70s punk and lumbering street-doom, but this is really all their own concoction. Man Eaters are red-eyed rock’n’roll destroyers out for blood, and this album is a true wall of righteous noise leavened with agile hooks that keep you coming back for more. ■■■■■■■■■■

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