When I was younger, AC/DC were the gods of the pot-buzzed, beer-bellied outcasts of my high school. Being an admitted music snob at the time, I looked down on AC/DC for their adolescent sexuality and simple chords. I couldn’t even tell the difference between the two men who fronted the band; they both seemed to have come from the same school of crotch-grabbing vocal histrionics. However, the oddest thing happened. As I got older, moving beyond the teenage wasteland that was AC/DC’s core crowd, I started to “get it.” AC/DC wasn’t a group made for intellectual analysis; rather, they provided the soundtrack for sleazy, drunken screwing or when you’re feeling pissed out of your mind. Their songs produced a focused, emotional release, as loud and obnoxious as punk rock but with the R&B kick of classic Rolling Stones and The Kinks.
Wired must’ve been bitten by the AC/DC bug early. The guys will probably get tired of the comparison after awhile, but it’d be foolish for anyone to deny who this band uncannily sounds like. And we’re not talking pale imitation here. If somebody revealed that Wired was actually AC/DC in disguise, I wouldn’t be shocked. Screeching, scratchy vocals? Check. Big, booming guitars? Check. Lyrics with sexual double meanings? Check. Knock Wired for their lack of originality; however, don’t be surprised if this album becomes your guilty pleasure.
And delicacies certainly abound, namely the stud strut of “Fifty Cent Millionaire” and the poisonous kiss-off “Burn Bitch Burn,” which is likely to be the soundtrack of frat boys everywhere and you’ll probably hate yourself for tapping your feet to it. In fact, you might have to listen to Wired in secrecy, afraid of letting neighbors know of the nasty-yet-catchy CD within your pile of U2 records. But isn’t that what rock and roll is about?
Marque Records: www.marquerecords.com