By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
Putting its abject, aesthetic abomination of a band name aside, supergroup Chickenfoot is—and, I admit, this feels wrong in so many ways—more fun than three barrels of monkeys. Or at least more fun than half a case of Cabo Wabo-brand tequila.
The self-titled debut from the act—consisting of Van Halen's Sammy Hagar and Michael Anthony, guitar virtuoso Joe Satriani, and Red Hot Chili Peppers drummer Chad Smith—is more or less '80s cock-rawk cliché city, with lots of het-up "yeahs" and guitar solos threatening to spiral out of control, along with more subtle-as-a-bomb sexual innuendos than you can shake an Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery DVD at. At the same time, who else in rock right now has the balls to run rampant with this sort of graying horny-toad tomfoolery?
In their own way, songs like "Sexy Little Thing" and "My Kinda Girl" are more shocking than anything else happening in popular music right now. Let's hope Chickenfoot can last longer than Velvet Revolver did—if only to keep Hagar's career alive, to keep Satriani's digits limber, and to waylay indefinitely, by way of drummer Smith's involvement, the release of yet another insipid Red Hot Chili Peppers snoozer.
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