the big switch, was beautiful enough to top the pop charts for three weeks. But on Flesh & Blood, inflated full of stale air by producer Bruce Fairbairn, Poison lets pop fall by the wayside. Sick of being voted Worst Band in every metal-mag poll, Poison now wants to rock, goddamnit. Whatever bite the group once boasted, however, is dribbling down the storm drain.

Flesh & Blood is the Poison CD for suckers who think Pump was good Aero-smith. Fairbairn made Pump and the even piddlier Permanent Vacation squish like slush. The guy's got no use for rhythm sections, and his aesthetic hearkens closer to Days of Future Passed than to Toys in the Attic. With Bon Jovi, whose Meat Loaf leanings depend on a certain romantic uplift, this sort of pomp can be a plus. But for concise 4/4 hook-and-riff bands, it's death.

The sorry state of Poison's third outing can't be blamed entirely on Fairbairn, though. The loss of heart and humor is just as depressing. C.C. DeVille's six-string solos are detached from the melodies; singer Bret Michaels's bedside bravado has grown perfunctory and generic. And where does hogwash like "Ride the wind/Never coming back again/Until I touch the midnight sun" come from – too much marijuana, old Kansas records, health-food-eating groupies, maybe? Say it ain't so!

In Flesh & Blood's best fast song, a doofus Doobies-circa-1972 boogie called "Let It Play," rock & roll helps Michaels forget his crummy car and bitching boss; in the best slow tune, a dippy Elton-circa-1972 piano blues called "Something to Believe In," Michaels makes his protest move. (He figures out that people died in Vietnam and that homelessness is bad!) These tunes aren't half as transcendent as "Every Rose" or "I Won't Forget You" or "Talk Dirty to Me," but they'll sound fine on the FM when their time comes. The rest of Flesh & Blood might very well make me change the station. For Poison, that'll be a first. (RS 587)

CHUCK EDDY