W.A.S.P.

Blackie's back and he's as Lawless as ever. Their umpteenth album in who knows (or cares) how long, W.A.S.P. tries their luck with a completely unoriginal idea: since they've been in a commercial slump since the late ’80s, why not try to sound like their first album. Forget that, how about their earliest demo tapes, the ones that initially brainwashed the retards at Capitol Records who signed this band in the first place. Yeah, that's the ticket to yet another pitiful flop that'll stuff bargain bins everywhere. Revel in the disgustingly misogynist lyrics of "Don't Cry (Just Suck)" and "Dirty Balls"; indulge yourself in the drug and alcohol wastelands of "Cocaine Cowboys" and "Can't Die Tonight"; or how about this — instead of buying this record, take a $20 bill and set it on fire. You'll get the same results. And hey, if you have more money to burn, why not order some worthless merchandise from the W.A.S.P. Nation Fan Club: a luxurious W.A.S.P. leather jacket complete with saw blade W.A.S.P. logo and "bolt heads" (just like the W.A.S.P. logo) on the seams, for only $500; a limited edition baseball bat (perfect for playing mailbox baseball with your pals), embossed with Blackie's name, a steal at $75; or how about an official W.A.S.P. stage prop, actually used on a real tour with the band at one point in their long, drawn-out career, for a exorbitant yet negotiable price. The entire catalogue (included conveniently in the CD liner notes) can be yours. Play the album as loud as you can so you'll blow your speakers and then be embarrassed that you did so on such a crappy band. Enjoy this blight on the metal world with all your college pals whom you met at the clinic where they too sold their plasma for beer money. Kill yourself! W.A.S.P. won't care.