Like any self-respecting cock rock band, the Brides of Destruction wield black leather and wickedly shaped guitars with unashamed purpose, and the glint of chrome bouncing off their various bodily ornaments is only dulled by the caricature drawing on the cover of their debut, Here Come the Brides. Despite their cartoonish appearance, however, the foursome, headed up by former L.A. Guns lead Traci Guns and Motley Crue bassist Nikki Sixx, still appear pretty menacing. Skulls and roses abound, symbolizing the all too familiar dichotomy of bad boys on the lookout for love, but Here Come the Brides oscillates between these two themes far too mechanically, and the Brides end up telling the same stories we heard, and eventually dismissed, fifteen years ago.
Musically, Here Come the Brides rocks with all the swagger, inebriation and low IQ of the best hair rock. Like a drunk driver in a fast car on a curvy California road, the Brides play with the reckless abandon one would expect from 80s L.A. veterans. At times hard and fast, at times swerving and uncertain, always confident and out of control, the ride is a blast until conscience and consciousness flash their red and blue lights in the rearview. “Shut the F**ck Up” is the first and best track on the disc, and the Brides spew out before-the-fall L.A. punk like a bunch of reborn sinners finally wandering back to the true church. A raging intro kicks off “I Don’t Care” in a similarly purist fashion, but as the song moves from verse to bridge to chorus, the chinks in the Brides’ leather chaps and chains begin to show.
By the time “I Got a Gun” is halfway through the second verse, it is readily apparent that, despite the hint of brilliance in “Shut the F**k Up,” the Brides are up to the same old, tired tricks they tried back in 1988. Aside from “Revolution,” which at least means what it says, even if it doesn’t always sound like it, the Brides of Destruction aren’t destroying anything but their own intentions.
Back in their heyday, as misguided and drunk as they may have been, they meant it, but now that Sixx is married with children to Donna D’Errico, it’s hard to take all the bad boy attitude too seriously. Here Come the Brides is a perfect portrait of a group of aging rock stars and an era that have grown up and left their artistic sensibilities behind. The recent resurgence of unabashed testosterone rock would seem to hint that there might be a welcome mat for the Brides of Destruction, but while much of the present day posturing is done with tongue firmly in cheek, the Brides have left their sense of irony at the door (if they ever had one), and the joke is therefore on them.
