Suicide bombers - Suicide Idols album review

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Cover art for Suicide bombers - Suicide Idols album

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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.


Came from the sky like a 747. Classic Rock’s least-reputable byline-grabber since 2003. Several decades deep into the music industry. Got fired from an early incarnation of Anal C**t after one show. 30 years later, got fired from the New York Times after one week. Likes rock and hates everything else. Still believes in Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction, against all better judgment.