Slaughter
The Wild Life

THE REVIEW

Slaughter: Goliath's brain in David's body. A belligerent war machine, very folkloric, equipped with a mouth that spits petrifying hairspray, rotating studs, inhuman leather armor, and lion cub roars. After so many years, I too find myself being a defender and despising the parodistic "hair metal" of these times but, if I think about it, a band like this, with an album like this, becomes an excellent excuse to joke about the tough glam of the years gone by. Not that, in my humble opinion, they should be thrown out entirely, but this is just not it.

These suburban Kiss, this brigade threatening like a horny Blackie Lawless, this brutally sweetened gang of number one ruffians, these Manowar (for the scenic part) of rock hailing from Las Vegas bet a lot on themselves and, at least back in the day, managed to rake in a nice sum and a decent fame with the 1990 debut "Stick It To Ya" and the subsequent support tour with Kiss. Then they decided to go overboard two years later, buoyed by so much sponsorship, with this "The Wild Life" that indeed has a lot of wildness. Among the roars of motorcycles that seem like "oh my god they are coming!", inappropriate heavenly sounds, country remakes like a cowboy sitting on a rocking chair, hat pulled over his eyes, and boots resting on the railing, the gentlemen come out with an album not exactly nice, but not devoid of entertaining moments either. Among the main flaws to be noted, there is a production that calling tacky is an overstatement, a voice and pronunciation unabashedly lowbrow (almost smelling foul), and the closing ballad that seems like a mockery. "All the days gone by, do you remember when we were the best friends!" with bells ringing in celebration over a karaoke-style piano chorus.

On the positive side, there's the classic glam rock push, aggressive and tough of Reach for the sky and The wild life, combined with the party (a bit ruffian) rock of songs like Out for love, Dance for me baby, Hold on and more. These four stage-hungry beasts know how to play, even well, however, they have serious expressive limits: they haven't invented anything unlike many bands that have practiced the same genre and with the second album have become established.

As far as I'm concerned, they can be considered a meteor that, still fiery, is wandering through the universe shot at millions of light-years. But well, better see and observe them from afar. Up close, they just seem like an exasperation, an early form of parody of the genre. Rolling Stone gave this album three stars. I would give it two and a half simply because they were truly convinced of what they were doing. But DeBaser doesn't know half measures and hence a solid two like an egg. Rotten.