Faster Pussycat
Faster Pussycat

THE REVIEW

There is already a lengthy yet pointless review of this album. To be honest, there are many crappy reviews of my favorite genre. I believe some chapters need to be told again.

Faster Pussycat, 1987, debut. Born in Hollywood the year before, they can be considered those who contributed to give the sleazy twist to hard rock. A quick clarification about the rating and the band. For me, they play like a 3, but have an attitude of a 5. If it's true that music isn't just about playing well, this isn't a fabricated and forced 4. It's a 4 that fits perfectly.

The music. Brash, hard rock n' roll, nothing exceptional but socially placeable among disconnected, misfit, homeless people. Saloon jolts, brothel licks, soaked lyrics are the blades of our Swiss knife, unafraid to show the truly daring side of the glam story. There are at least a couple of truly immortal anthems for convinced glamsters, with verses and words that have become part of the jargon, signs, and lifestyle of many musical jail remnants worldwide. Two big guitars, bass, drums, voice close to alcoholic coma, dive bar piano. Chaos, fun, hedonism: ethically incorrect music, absolutely worth listening to. Surpassed by their students, yet still masters of a straightforward and successful musical eros. On the sound side, we could stop here.

But I need to justify the 5 for attitude. Readers of my reviews might have noticed that sometimes I write “this song makes me think of this or that”. With Faster Pussycat – and I can't explain why with them – the situation is reversed. There are life moments when, at the occurrence of something, the tracks of this album come to mind, even systematically. Faster Pussycat is an album that made me see myself clearly, the pettiness of my lowly human self, my mental short circuits. I’m a jerk of a man too, and Faster Pussycat tells my dandruffy side best.

When my woman is pissed and tells me, “you never make this bed, there are even hairs, how disgusting, this can’t go on”, the second thing I think after strangulation is "Don’t Change That Song", the opener of this album that ties so well to the thought of “same old story, you clear my hairs”. When what wants to pass through my anal orifice is so crap to be stone and makes me sweat fuchsia droplets while mephitic airs burn the nasal mucous, the first thing I think of is "Bathroom Wall", a genuine toilet of a song. When I delve and allow myself to delve into warm, oral communication, "No Room For Emotion" sounds so good the inquiry pleasantly lasts longer than usual.

"Cathouse" is the never – and I mean never – missing anthem during my glam nights. I could be holding a boob, a buttock, a glass, a joint, or a rolled-up banknote, but she never missed. "Babylon" I strongly recommend to everyone. A ridiculous post-production enriches this ruthless rock with an adolescent voice that repeatedly says “pussy p-p-pppp- puss-pussycat!”. When in summer I happen to see a busty client with a low neckline, what do you think spins at 45 RPMs in my head? And where do I look at her? I listen to "Smash Alley" when there's a Bushmills bottle next to my driver's seat. "Shooting You Down" is what I put on when my soccer team wins gloriously at volumes that justified a tenant meeting for the “Core-a-core” case. "City Has No Heart" is masturbation over the mythical young Pam. Glam she is, sleazy the piece, trash the hand. "Ship Rolls In" (I swear) while it played in a club, someone pulled it out and started peeing in circles. Even I found it disgusting. "Bottle In Front Of Me" we often use to get smashed before going out without women on sabbath preparties.

If this isn't rock n' roll.