Crashdiet
Rest In Sleaze

A first verdict without appeal for this group was expressed by the ugly side of life: death. On January 20, 2006, Dave Lepard, singer and guitarist of the compact Crashdiet, was found cold in his Stockholm apartment. Depression and drugs a-go-go. A story written like the sign of the City of Angels club, where "a-go-go" succinctly, avoiding it, expresses the word excess, the common denominator of all expressions of street, glam, sleaze. Some have survived themselves, and others have sadly left us, adhering to the cynical unwritten rule that, in a rocker's life, one must count on such a death. At twenty-six. It makes me want to cry, and one day I will at his grave.

The worst way to start writing a review is this, but I try now because otherwise, I know I wouldn't manage it.

The bands that turned hard rock into an asphalt jungle didn't last long and didn't have a vast progeny. Strictly in leopard spots, realities popped up here and there that at best won the scepter of promises. But who ever kept them? No one. There was much talk of formations like Quireboys, Hardcore Superstars, Bang Tango, Backyard Babies, but in these, I always found a crust of appearance that devitalized my feelings towards them. Looks and sounds crafted by designers and engineers who, in the attempt to make them seem born in the worst rundown nook of L.A., instead managed to achieve the opposite effect, of damn pop superstars. However.

However.

Six years before his death, Dave Lepard managed to set up Crashdiet, dissolve them and reform them. A band born with promises already kept. Voices from Sweden spoke to my friends and me incredibly about the shows of these new stage desecrators. Performances from a typical street club atmosphere, conceived instinctively on the spot, but always blended with the crazy and posing attitudes of Dave. I remember a phrase from Hanna, a friend from Gothenburg seen recently, an ecstatic fan, who defined them to me as: "they are what The 69 Eyes wanted to be". She logically referred to the Finnish band's sleaze period.

In reality, Crashdiet injected themselves into the fans' circulatory system because they took their identity not by chance. As putative fathers, they chose Hanoi Rocks. Here, an improbable glamster who didn't know Crashdiet would have understood everything anyway and would gesture me to stop. Because we are talking about something serious, damn it. Hanoi Rocks, not a band born to be caricatured. If you have that dynamite inside, you're sure not to risk missing the hit and being mistaken for a revival hair metal band (how disgusting, by the way).

One fine day in 2005, to return to the release year of this little treasure trove of desires, I believe I was the first in Italy (I do not accept denials) to receive at home the debut full-length of Crashdiet. When I grasp the honesty of intent of these courageous kids and their musical proposal, the emotion that runs through me is so sleaze that, as you can see, I'm talking about it in the present tense. The little box that shines in my hands is so well stuffed with all the clichés of the case that it might seem like a farce. Damn it, they write "knock" with two k's, that is, "knokk", "ticket" as "tikket" and have truly glam titles. I'm in barely concealed rapture when, in front of a puzzled cousin, I cling to the stereo and widen my eyes. "Knokk ‘Em Down" starts, a slash for wounded nostalgics like me, and I'm immediately KO. It's the return of the street. The moment before receiving the hit, you just have time to understand that the blow is caliber Judas Priest. When you recover, with the little birds circling around your head, it seems you saw Hanoi Rocks singing like Axl Rose, playing like the early Motley Crue, and doing choruses like Bon Jovi or Stryper. But, I swear on my balls, no copy of any sort, no remake, no successful or poorly successful imitation. Crashdiet has the strength of 5 years behind them and a lifestyle so rotten that they are a band that presents you with the bill first and then a dish far better than you expected. "Riot In Everyone", second track of the lot, is an assault on the diligence in Britny Fox style with unconventional weapons, conducted by someone with such a seductive voice it would stop horses, while - sorry for the repetition - Bon Jovi and Stryper humming would finish the job.

Dave's voice seems like a Pantone catalog. All the tones, all the shades of rock greats are condensed in one that is basically very fleshy and full-bodied. "Queen Obscene" is the first piece of hard, prime cut meat, that is, best quality, for posers with the sword of fire. The rhythmic guitar base, always by the late Dave, hits you - truth be told, throughout the album - with your head out the window on the highway at 200 km/h. You find the solos in the overtaking lane. "Breakin' The Chainz" sounds like a generational anthem, spat there by a Dave showing you page 107 of the Pantone catalog mentioned earlier. It goes with heavy sleaze with "Needle In Your Eye" which initially makes me think of "Lay It Down" by (in the name of the father, the son, etc.) Ratt. A constant in the album is not being too slick, which doesn’t make the album seem a novelty at all costs. In addition, the power of the band lies in closing up compactly like a phalanx of Spartan squires for breakthrough. "Tikket", precisely, demonstrates what I say, showing the tough skin of the Swedes. Meanwhile, I throw in Loudness and Scorpions. You glimpse them in the distance applauding this work which, with "Out of Line", touches the six strings and the soul, giving you footholds, in the manner of Dalton or Hardline. If you have a girlfriend who doesn't listen to the genre, try having her sink her teeth into "It's A Miracle", which is undoubtedly the most feminine of the tracklist, the confession of the first street love as they did in the early drafts of ballads, always by Ratt.

"Straight Outta Hell" belongs to the world of Motley Crue / Girlschool, while with "Back On Track" you could do the whiskey test with your eyes closed: a connoisseur would say it's from 1981. And yet.

And yet.

Thinking about it makes me want to cry for real. Shortly after the album's release, along with Dave Lepard, all hopes of a, at least, one band keeping alive those of us who go like vintage ghosts to get made fun of for the hair we wear, the jeans we wear, the colors we "flash." Sad, as sad, fundamentally, has always been this colorful musical genre that knows death better than anyone else. Remember that.

Dear Dave, rest in sleaze.