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Shooting
Blanks
 Velvet
Revolver
Contraband (RCA)
Remember the days when rock & roll used to actually rock?
Here we are, celebrating rock’s 50th anniversary—apparently
observed on July 5th, the date that Elvis recorded “That’s
All Right” back in ’54—and, much like the King himself probably
would have been had he reached the milestone himself, today’s
rock & roll music is looking and sounding bloated and
impotent. Man, rock & roll may be in need of a tummy tuck
and a quadruple bypass.
So many of the last generation’s rock stars—a term used only
to describe them as they might describe themselves, and meant
in both the musical and behavioral senses—are scrambling to
secure their 401k plans, it seems as if they’re conspiring
to burst from the old-rockers home and take over. And they’d
be right to assume that their mere existence on the musical
radar is worthy of restoring their superstar status. There
just aren’t any real rock stars these days. Scott Stapp?
Um, no. Fred Durst? Please. At least Jack White can throw
a punch, but he was instantly banned from the club for dating
Renée Zellweger. So you can’t really blame the old guys for
trying to inject a little life into rock’s old, collapsed
veins like so much Mexican black tar.
Imagine the rock world’s version of The Real World
(or, more appropriately, The Surreal Life). Take one
estranged-and- palpably-frustrated backup band; add one charismatic
(and often socially troubled) lead singer—preferably one who
hasn’t had a hit in a while; stir in a liberal dose of media
hype; and, voila! Instant million- seller. Just ask Audioslave,
which combined ex-Soundgarden frontman Chris Cornell with
the three instrumentalists from Rage Against the Machine to
form a band who sound like, well, Rage Against the Machine
playing Soundgarden tunes. Exactly the sum of its parts—no
more, no less.
It looks like others are starting to catch on to the formula.
Former Black Crowes frontman Chris Robinson has reportedly
signed on to record with the three remaining members of Stone
Temple Pilots (for a project that E! Online has
playfully dubbed Black Temple Roses.) A similar framework
was used for the recent DKT/MC5 tour, which coupled the three
surviving members of the legendary Detroit rabblerousers with
vocalists like Evan Dando, Mark Arm (Mudhoney), and Howlin’
Pelle Almqvist (the Hives). The difference? They made the
wise choice to stick to the good shit and just play MC5 tunes.
What makes Velvet Revolver different from any of the other
so-called “supergroups”? Beside their pedigree, not much.
The band began when “surviving” Guns N’ Roses members Slash,
Duff McKagan and Matt Sorum teamed up with guitarist Dave
Kushner and held an open casting call of sorts to locate a
new singer, a process that was documented by VH1 for an upcoming
special. The band actually started as a reality show! Sorry,
but there’s nothing rock & roll about that. They eventually
found their man in former Stone Temple Pilot Scott Weiland,
a guy who’s racked up a Courtney Love-caliber arrest record
for his drug abuse and domestic violence. The five members’
collective firepower virtually guaranteed a number-one Billboard
debut, but it remained to be seen whether the music would
skew nostalgic or blaze a new trail.
The newly minted band have been tooting their own admittedly
well- credentialed horns in the press, touting themselves
as “dangerous.” Surely, most bands try to come out swingin’
on their first record (except Coldplay, who just sort of nodded
their heads), and these guys have every reason to talk this
thing up like it’s Houses of the Holy (or Appetite
for Destruction, for that matter), but for them to suggest
that the music on their debut album, Contraband, is
edgy in the same way as either of their seed bands were is
almost blasphemous. And that’s saying a lot for STP, who themselves
were pretty damn derivative.
From the first notes of “Sucker Train Blues,” one thing is
apparent: Velvet Revolver are out to prove something.
What exactly that is doesn’t come completely clear for most
of the album—maybe they just want to show that they can still
stand up (physically) on their own volition—but it’s fairly
clear that they aren’t comfortable with just playing the hits
of the early ’90s, and that’s too bad because, unfortunately,
there isn’t exactly a wealth of new hits here. Duff’s bass
tone conjures the sonic memory of “It’s So Easy,” but once
the band kicks in and Weiland starts muttering distorted gibberish
(à la GNR’s “Civil War”), it ends up sounding like karaoke
night at the local dive bar. In fact, there are a lot of moments
on Contraband where it sounds as if Weiland is merely
trying to play the Axl role (before he went completely mental,
of course).
Truth be told, Velvet Revolver are, at their core, best when
pushing the click track on straightforward tunes like “Do
It for the Kids” or chugging along on that “Train Kept a-Rollin’”
groove that made “Welcome to the Jungle” such a kick in the
ass back in the diz-zay. Certain types of grooves have never
suited this rhythm section (remember GNR’s “Yesterdays”? They
never locked into that one), so straightforward four-on-the-floor
rockers like “Spectacle” and “Dirty Little Thing” work just
fine, while “Illegal i Song” and “Big Machine” turn out as
stiff and lifeless as last year’s Jane’s Addiction reunion
record. That’s not to say that there isn’t a fair amount of
decent material—the “Sex Type Thing” riff on “Slither,” is
a hoot, and “Do It for the Kids” is encouragingly Use Your
Illusion-esque—but Weiland weighs things down with clichéd
and just-plain-dumb lyrics like “I’m a superman, I wanna be
your superman.” Ugh.
Weiland’s trials (some legal) and tribulations tend to dominate
the lyric sheet. Between a highly visible and ongoing battle
with drug addiction, and last year’s divorce from his wife
of nearly three years, he had what he has called a “pretty
rough year,” but for him to come out of those experiences
with lyrics like “I’m a man who is trudging . . . through
a minefield” seems less like self-assessment than it does
“woe is me” posturing. That’s not to say he didn’t earn the
right to bitch and moan, but it’s hardly personal or eloquent,
no more so than what you might find in the margins of your
average high-school student’s biology notebook.
Then there are the obligatory power ballads. While “Fall to
Pieces” is a calculated designated hitter for the next single,
it’s a boring, soulless dry spell between better tracks. Contraband
is one of the most sure-fire blockbusters to be issued by
a major this year, so why did it need this song? Maybe it’s
wrong to expect a band to rock hard all the time, but after
the full-on assault of the album’s first five tracks, it’s
jarring to hear these guys puss out so thoroughly. It’s not
like they couldn’t pull off something more downtempo with
a little bit of style—for that, check out “You Got No Right,”
on which Weiland’s vunerable-sounding voice is sharper than
it has been in nearly a decade, even if the track itself sounds
like a Red Bull-fueled version of Aerosmith’s “Livin’ on the
Edge.” Of course, the subject matter is characteristically
superficial, but it certainly outweighs the former’s I’m-so-lonely-I-could-sing-“Don’t
Cry” sentiment.
Ultimately, this whole thing works out much like the Audioslave
project did: When it clicks, it’s bombastic rock-radio fare,
even if not terribly interesting; when it doesn’t, it sounds
like the hollow, lifeless shell of the rock that used to be,
like the fat Elvis trying to snake his cheeseburger-stuffed
ass into that old gold lamé suit for one more lame-ass go-round.
That may sound unfairly harsh, but if these guys are trying
to be “dangerous,” it’s gonna take a lot more than letting
out the waist on the old leather pants and doling out a bunch
of f-bombs to get there. Maybe if they really want to kick
up some dirt, they should consider giving Axl a call right
about now. Sure, it would stink (as anyone who caught the
last GNR tour would attest), but at least it would be fun
to watch.
An interesting postscript: Scott Weiland was ordered back
into a drug-rehab program by a judge in L.A. last Friday after
pleading guilty to driving under the influence and smashing
into a parked car last October. Now that could be a
fun topic for a reality show, a la Ronnie Dobbs. Run Scotty
Run!
—John
Brodeur
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