Simply put, Alice Cooper’s Constrictor is less an anomaly in this day and age than Ratt’s Dancing Undercover is. One assumes, while the other presumes. Alice, unlike Ratt, is, was, and probably always will be the living personification of the teenage years and all their accompanying loneliness, frustration and psychosis; loneliness and teenage being the primal force that not only created rock’n’roll in the first place, but continues to suckle it at its steel-tipped teat to this very minute, demanding its daily doses of rhythmic, anthemic, protomanic, psychobabeling loud-screams-outta-the-wasteland kinda stuff.
Put even simpler, Alice Cooper’s Constrictor is about the leering fantasy of getting laid when you know deep down in your teen heart of darkness that you’re the local nerd, hodad, geek, wimp, wusp, asshole, etc., whereas Ratt’s Dancing Undercover presumes sexual conquest and all the ennui surrounding the emotions of knowing you’re gonna get laid ’cause it’s part of the rock’n’roll instructions booklet that comes with dolling yourself up and joining a slick pud-rocker band, which is, after all, what Ratt’s all about.
Point in fact: the first song on Alice’s Constrictor is called “Teenage Frankenstein,” a blitzkrieg ode to the teenaged outsider sullenly walking down the streets, listening to all those crowded, squabby voices in his head telling him about the vagaries of life and the verities of death, especially someone else’s. This song, in its own weird way, takes up where Alice left off on “I’m Eighteen” and “Is It My Body,” both quintessential teenbeat classics long and oft acknowledged.
From there, Constrictor takes us through the usual tour de Alice, starting with his leer ’n’ cheek zombie vaudeville pagan death chant, “Simple Disobedience,” a side glance into an alternate universe’s edition of Pat Robertson’s son busily decapitating Pope dolls while Dad’s out in the garden waiting for his latest God-O-Gram to flash across his video screen. It then scuddles into the nearly anthemic “The World Needs Guts”--and, hey, anthems ain’t that easy to write these days--into a pair of decliptiude and sensual sonic sextoons, “Trick Bag” and “Crawlin’.” Finishing up this particular hell stomp is “The Great American Success Story,” an anti-yuppie statement for those of us who bought the entire 60s concept and haven’t had a steady job, let alone gotten laid, since--and “He’s Back (The Man Behind The Mask),” a noisy slashaganza which brings us back to our teenage Frankenstein, only now he’s stopped wandering the streets without purpose, his next step in the anti-loneliness drill being the systematic demise of all those jerks out there who are getting laid. It’s good to have Alice the real man behind the reptilian mask, back. Let’s lissen a little more carefully because he knows one thing: we’ve still got a long way to go.
Ratt’s Dancing Undercover, on the other hand, sucks.
I really don’t want to say anymore than that, but I suppose I must. Ratt started out being oily Aerosmith imitators and have since gone the way of the world, opting for the slick, two percent low-fat homogenized prodigal sonics and metal machismo you expect outta the Bon Jovi and Sammy Hagar school of pud-rockers. They could easily be the house band for the Playboy Channel, y’know, softcore noise all the way. Pop metal has its place--and in my house, it’s usually in the wastebasket.
Honestly, this record is so homogenized that I put it on, and an hour later forgot that it had even played. It has no identity, no pazzazz, nothing. OK. All bile aside, the two songs where Robin Crosby takes on lead guitar chores--“Drive Me Crazy” and “Looking For Love”--show the possibilities this band could have if they just pull their wicks outta the shaky puddin’ long enough to at least pay attention to their own potential. I don’t have to talk about any of the other songs ’cause you’ll be hearing and hearing and hearing each and every one of them on MTV for the next year or so. Dancing Undercover will be a smash hit LP. Constrictor will struggle for every inch of ground it covers. That’s the way of the world.
Oh yeah, both records were produced by Beau Hill. Is that supposed to mean something!?!?
Get your own Free Home Page