"Mr. Right Hand Man"

(Go Down Records)

01. Go!!!
02. Song For the Damned
03. Honey
04. The Others
05. Fat Ass Rockstar
06. Time To Fuck
07. Rock Me On
08. Like Toys
09. I Was Drunk
10. Lovely God
11. Rosieline
12. Mr. Right Hand Man

RATING: 7/10

Time for a little Pavlovian experiment. THE HELLACOPTERS. TURBONEGRO. THE BLACK HALOS. BACKYARD BABIES. GLUECIFER. Are you drooling yet? If so, do what you have to do to get a copy of this Italian rock combo's tasty slab of snotty Swederock abandon.

Hell, based on song titles alone, it's hard to understand how a label like Liquor and Poker or Tee Pee hasn't picked up this gem for Stateside distribution. BABYRUTH smirk, swagger, and generally grab crotch nonsensically for about 35 minutes, with goofus lyrics ("I don't wanna hear you/but I just wanna fuck you… honey, I'm just the star, yeah") and a gum-cracking, head-nodding HANOI ROCKS vapidness that's a hoot. The title track is about beating off, "Time to Fuck" is a better BANG TANGO song than that band ever wrote, and the only thing resembling a ballad here is, of course, "I Was Drunk".

Good times!

These guys owe more than a little to bawdy Bon Scott-era AC/DC (they oughta be sending royalties to Angus and Malcolm for the opening riff and tone of "Lovely God"), to L.A. pop-metal in general, and to the Swedish rock scene they obviously adore (they traveled to Stockholm, recorded with Tomas Skogsberg, and wrote "Time to Fuck" in anticipation of the experience). The whole thing is greasy kids' stuff, of course, but that's what makes it so much fun — and these songs will definitely stick with you. Hell, "Song for the Damned" alone, with its nod to "Hey Jude" in the guitar solo and exuberant backing vocals, makes this an essential record all by itself.

BABYRUTH has next to no distribution in the USA at the moment. But you know what? You're sitting at a computer that's connected to the Internet. Use it for something more productive than goat porn, for once, and track this album down for yourself. "Mr. Right Hand Man" is the perfect example of pure guilty pleasure, all hedonistic rock and roll silliness, doused in sprayed beer, wearing a lampshade, running butt-naked down a hotel hallway. Candy-coated riff rock that knows how to bring the party.


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