W.A.S.P.
Helldorado

The W.A.S.P. ("we are sexual perverts", translated "we are sexual perverts") led by the absolute leader Blackie Lawless, once again joined by the faithful Chris Holmes on guitar, had already proclaimed themselves as the true lords of "shock rock" by the time they wrote this "Helldorado", their eighth studio album.

You can ask any fan of the band and none will tell you that this is one of their favorite albums; indeed, surely, many of them will consider it one of the lowest points of their career, with mediocre reviews and sales further reinforcing the negative judgment.

This, despite the band, in Blackie's own words when presenting "Helldorado", tried to return to their roots. Actually, to the roots of their roots, meaning those early demo tapes that were even rougher and dirtier in sound than what would be their self-titled debut from 1984. An attempt to return to that youthful spirit and attitude without many studio tricks, pursuing a bare production to accompany the usual three chords blasted at full speed.

Therefore, it must be said that if those were the (modest) premises, the band of perverts succeeded almost completely, delivering an honest album, out of time for everything, anachronistic as many metalheads like, and surely fun, dirty, and nasty.

Throughout the tracklist, each song (except for "Damnation Angels" and "High On The Flames" where things slow down a bit) is rougher and more powerful (as well as similar) than the one before it, and this little trick does not bore and works almost until the end, with a "Saturday Night Cockfight" that breaks the idyll by being overly predictable.

Otherwise, the album is full of uptempo tracks that hit you in the face, with Blackie's harsh voice ready for all the screams, "yeah" and "oh" that the craft requires in this case.

A theatrical intro in the style of Alice Cooper welcomes us with "Drive By" where the kind clientele is warned about what awaits them: a ball-busting ride down the highway to hell in the footsteps of AC/DC.

We mount the saddle and the raucous screams of the singer start, like the roar of an "unmuffled" engine at full power, towards stadium choruses that repeat over and over with success in the title track, at the risk of becoming tedious in other cases.

Still, the entire hypothetical first side holds its own thanks to the party atmosphere of "Don't Cry (Just Suck)", with the vicious lyrics typical of an LA street band and a chorus to shout out loud, to the bastard and metalized country of "Damnation Angels" (which recalls certain things of Cinderella) and another party song "Dirty Balls" which, despite being misogynistic, can't help but make you smile.

The album continues like this, with lots of energy and the risk of redundancy in the choruses always around the corner, with a "High On The Flames" standing out among others for a gentler pace and the voice somewhat seeking a new way to modulate a bit, while the guitar work continues to be faithful to the Australian forefathers (I won't repeat their name) until the end, when "Hot Rods To Hell" (which at first was supposed to give the album its title) plays with rock 'n' roll, minimally reprising and varying the initial "Helldorado".