Suicide bombers - Suicide Idols album review

The best Sleaze you can get this month

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Notorious Norwegian glam-slamming provocateurs return with another dose of teenage-backstage sex and outrage. Given their over-the-top moniker and bedraggled leather n’ latex look, you’d have to be a serious fucking dummy to expect any kind of nuance here. This is straight-up, hot-pink, hair-to-the-heavens flash metal, delivered with all the subtlety of a Steve Stevens guitar solo or, like, the cover of that first Anthrax record.

The album is loaded with snarly uppercuts like Ready For Tonight, Never softwareuiphraseguid=“1db82bd7-0e3f-4cab-909d-9f1767bf91ea”>SOFTWAREmark” gingersoftwareuiphraseguid=“d04aaabb-b56b-42c2-ad0d-24ef3f4a32cb” id=“45efb741-c366-4ba7-bc42-3d6ef4532545”>Gonna Change and Just One Fuck that combine the brooding melodicism of Hardcore Superstar or latter-day Backyard Babies with the arena rock heroics of Guns n’ Roses or L.A. Guns or any combination thereof.

The Bombers are so big, loud and pulsating that there’s no other modern day glam outfit that can match them for attitude, swagger or sheer buzzsaw riffing, mascara-smeared decadence. It’s not even fair, really. It’s like bringing a confetti cannon to a knife fight. The Bombers ain’t fakin’ it, that’s for sure.