The Aphrodisiax- E Pluribus Moronicus

“This album was recorded in 48 hours during the consumption of 60 beers and a bottle of vodka. What you hear is what you fuckin get.”

Cali-flash metal casualties the Aphrodisiax (formerly the Aphrodisiacs, or the Aphros (!) for short) take the punkified sleaze metal of the Sunset Strip circa sometime good and drag it right into the gutter, beat into a bloody mess of glitter and rags, and leave it screwed and blued in the dumpster behind the Cathouse. Vox man Scotty Steele is a deadringer, sonically speaking, for Taime Downe, so it ain’t no surprise that the Aphros sound kinda like Faster Pussycat, only meaner and uglier and without a single scarf or fuckin’ bolo tie. Fatter Pussycat, then? Maybe, since “E Pluribus” seems better suited for shooting galleries in the barrio or the beer tent at a biker rally than anything remotely concerned with glamour. That’s not to say that these rough n’ ready motor rockers ain’t above dollin’ up their sound on occasion, though. “Drinking” is a teary glitter-ballad fulla sweetly skronking harmonica and acoustic plucking, and it’s sister song “Driving” has the pop hooks and sweet candy center of the Trash Brats or American Heartbreak. I think they write those songs just to score chicks or record deals, however, because for most of this rip-ride, it’s flesh, fire, Guns n’ Roses licks, Stooges psyche-noise freakouts, and steaming locomotives of sin after sin flying right off the tracks and crashing into the local arena to blow minds and inflame crotches. Oh yeah, and the Aphros write real, authentic songs, too, spiky little nuggets that you can sing along to and store in your brain for future use. You’d figure that’d be a given, but plenty bands get away with a lot less these days. Matter of fact, I’m pretty surprised and maybe a little appalled that a band of this caliber is out there in the trenches, self-financing and dreaming of better days. I mean, just check out the twin party-wrecking anthems “American Rock N Roll” and “Gotta Get Go” for two of the catchiest, slinkiest, most wall-shaking pop-infused sleaze rock tunes I’ve heard since Motorcycle Boy, and brother, that’s been forever. Seems to me that the Aphrodisiax oughta be snorting caviar and banging half the Pussycat Dolls, or something, you know?

Oh, yeah, almost forgot. Rock is dead. Right?

Not from where I’m sitting, baby. From this view, with “E Pluribus Moronicus” blaring from the speakers and miles and miles of highway in front of me, this sounds more like a whoop of victory than a last gasp. So fuck everybody and all their goddamn opinions. Pick this fucker up, crank all knobs to the right, and let’s pretend we’re famous.