I'm a very hip guy. I'm with it. In fact, I'm so with it that very few cultural accidents, disasters or oddities actually surprise me anymore. I mean, what could surprise a cosmopolitan young guy like myself, when you think about it? Hell, I'm not just a modern guy-- I'm the modern guy. I'm connected to the Internet. I even watch C-SPAN now and then, for God's sake. I'm informed. I'm clued in. I'm in the mix. I'm into women's right, world politics and gun control laws. I even grew a goatee once, and I'm sure I have a cup of espresso around here somewhere. I'm a cool guy, cynical and savvy, and I know what's going down. Let's face it, I just know the score. I'm in the know. I'm in on it.

So it's pretty fucking rare that I find something that completely drops my jaw, blindsiding me like a speeding Mack truck and knocking my ass for a nasty loop. Enter the Demolition Doll Rods, driving that very truck, decked out in trashy fishnet stockings with cheap lipstick smeared on their faces, mowing down Middle America pedestrians left and right. You see, the Demolition Dolls can best be summed up in four key concepts: Sex, rock, naked live shows, transvestites. The one live concert photograph I've seen of them had a female guitarist with nothing on except star-shaped pasties over both nipples. I'm pretty sure the other guitarist was a guy, but the torn dress and the exposed penis threw me off a bit.

Usually when band employs these kinds of flash and trash theatrics, it means they're trying to cover up a serious talent deficiency. But dishing out tunes that combine the smoky vocals of Siouxsie and the Banshees with the shrill, semi-driving guitar work of (strangely enough) the Donnas, hints of Motown flavor, and the sheer balls-to-the-wall hedonism of the most shameless of hair bands, the Demolition Dolls Rods' only goal is to rock you.

With the exception of the potty-mouth lyrics and song after song of the kind of sexual metaphors that are about as subtle as a Jim Carrey comedy, the most shocking thing about the Demolition Doll Rods' recent, self-titled album is how not completely terrible parts of it are. These guys (?) have apparently taken a solemn vow to make the tackiest rock music possible, full of ripped-off Van Halen chord progressions and meaningless references to oral sex. But when you're not paying attention (which will probably be throughout the album's entirety), bits of genuine talent squeak through. The a cappella "Got a Little Lovin'" is honest-to-God groove, the kind of funky song that would've been at home on an old Supremes album. The fact that it leads right into the noisy and unforgivably dumb "Fooling Around" will, for now, be ignored.

As you might have guessed, this music is about as stable as a gasoline-and-flame cocktail. It constantly fires all five cylinders and pulls off every dirty, nasty dance it knows to get your attention. It's not all that sincere, though. And it's certainly not deep. And it can't even spell introspective. Nope, this is music that picks you up at a club late one night, and after an evening of bang- your- skull- against- the- headboard sex, it vanishes without even leaving a note. How you feel about it when the sun finally rises is your business.

The best thing about this album is its complete lack of pretension. When these three say they want to rock you, they mean it, and that's all they're out for. This is no overproduced Celine Dion schlock, designed to get young, sweaty couples to fall in love. This is raw, ass-moving music, designed to get sweaty, young couples drunk and to the bedroom. The downside, of course, is that this album is about as complex and interesting as a one-color Rubik's Cube, and despite all its flash, it ultimately falls flat like all shock-rock. Which begs the question: how in the hell did this group of shamelessly horny rock hooligans land on a typically brainy label like Matador? And will wonders never cease?

-Steven Byrd