The Last Vegas
Whatever Gets You Off

The Last Vegas, rock trash garage glam from Chicago, IL. They wrote this label themselves, and it's the right one. I already get excited just by reading rock trash garage glam.

In April 2009, they gave themselves a big kick in the pants and, together with Nikki Sixx's Eleven Seven Music, gave a shock to flamboyant and erotic rock by releasing "Whatever Gets You Off," a block of golden metal covered in spit and piss like we haven't heard in a while. For my personal taste, a new punch of adrenaline in the ventricles after Crashdiet, who, with the loss of the much-mourned Dave Lepard, began to suffer from creative artery blockage. If you've listened to Danger Danger's pop metal with Revolve from the same year, you'll agree with me that on the sleaze side, this is the answer. After a promising past as a band on the verge of a dynamite crisis, the Illinois five-piece really explode and cut an album that, more than silver, gold, and platinum records, deserves a real rough metal disc. Why? If you want to ride a sharp fluorescent guitar and go to the moon to bring some life with the Last Vegas, you can really do it.

Desire to live and smash everything around you joyfully, craving to get completely wasted after a week of down, the dream of holding hands and running on a plain against the wind, are the emotions that rise from the scrotum up your body. It's fair to truly define visceral the sensations provoked by this work – and I'll reiterate this concept for as long as I live – it's a real and serious glam record (as serious as these lost druggies from Chicago can be) that has nothing to do with that music only rich in misery promoted by filthy dry wicks like Wig Wam.

Behind "Whatever Gets You Off" are four years of sacrifices and sufferings in the pot of the little-known, with the awareness of not deserving it; efforts multiplied a hundredfold in the name of sweat to elbow and make their way in a market already very stingy with the genre; a contest won at the Whisky a go go that saw them touring to open for the "Saints Of Los Angeles" concerts by Motley Crue and who knows maybe they stole their women and scene. The experience of the contest promoted by Guitar Center was very useful for Chad Cherry (vocals) and the gang because it allowed them to meet the old uncles who refuse to die and go to the studio with them to record. The combination couldn't have been more soaked and raunchy.

Good music starts from good ideas. I believe the Last Vegas didn't just pick here and there for the sake of it, but I imagine they decided to listen to what (whether they like it or not) can be defined as the best: the best tracks from both "Illusions" by the Guns N' Roses and the solo works of Duff McKagan and Slash. Their base was their polished and purplish garage glam and, thanks to a superb production, a masterpiece emerged. No one would deny them a prime evening spot at a possible new Monsters Of Rock, being the headliners.

The album. An euphoric, boastful, glossy, and deafening bang! bang! bang! characterizes this gummy work. There are few episodes where the bpm don't definitely go beyond the average. Vibrant and peacocking, our guys immediately go on the attack with the "think positive influenced" song "Whatever Gets You Off," where festive notes start firing like happy clouds in the sky everywhere. The grooviest and jungliest GN'R immediately emerge. "I'm Bad" is the first gargle-like single for modern metropolitan cowboys. A high-cylinder pumping typical of a 3,000-cc car that struggles between traffic lights but only runs in the city to be admired. In the background, Faster Pussycat and L.A. Guns." "High Class Trash" (oh what a title!) sprays at random living in an immediately post-apical state of bliss. The opening triumvirate closes with a bang. Survivors of a concert might consider themselves real veterans of a pacifist war. Loose Lips is FM rock with palpitating beats, always strictly masterful.  - FORCED INSERTION. THE LAST VEGAS ARE MASTERS! REMEMBER THIS! -. In fifth position lives the ballad "Apologize," which, besides being stunning and deserving of a standing ovation meter, is brilliantly deceptive right from the title. A ballad to ask for forgiveness and forget everything, delivered with the usual charm of a man caught in a fling and hiding a thousand more. Well done! "Cherry Red," reminds me of the early Danger Danger. It's a track for forced tanning, for oiled muscles under the sun, for a star-spangled Casanova. In the overall album, another immensely powerful blow. "Another Lover" is a crazy fuzzy killer who has taken their path and shoots anyone who comes within range. The song jumps from short circuit to short circuit with the ease of a sex maniac armed with a strong desire to have sex. To restore order, though with a bat, comes "Dirty Things You Do," a track of experience and old school, fitting like a lipstick kiss on the mirror, left by the remade blonde on your mirror because she wants more. An indulgent and tongue-speaking album. It made me have the stupid and senseless desire to tattoo an entire arm. "White Lies," demonstrates the force of American 80s hard rock, that arm wrestling match of Stallone won with sudden ferocity. "Love Me Bad," starts like "We Will Rock You," a stadium-packed piece and concludes like "Paradise City," a cyclonic anthem where everyone turns toxic when it passes by. In conclusion, the rock n' roll slaughterhouse in full Motorhead style of "Outta My Mind."

I enjoy, you enjoy, he enjoys, we enjoy, you all enjoy, they enjoy. I enjoy, you enjoy, he enjoys, we enjoy, you all enjoy, they enjoy. I ENJOY, YOU ENJOY, HE ENJOYS, WE ENJOY, YOU ALL ENJOY, THEY ENJOY.

Marvel for my "the" (as Attila brother of God would say) ears.