In view of Mötley Crüe's and Ozzy Osbourne's ongoing mega-stardom, it's hard to imagine that success in heavy metal is the result of anything other than blind luck. Still, you can understand Columbia having given Warrant a big push. The lead singer is blond and self-infatuated, and he can sound exactly like any Hit Parader cover boy of the past half-decade. The drummer and bass player are major, major dreamboats, and the guitarists can play real fast. The band members make no bones about their belief that a woman's place is on her knees in front of rock gods like themselves, but even so, they're slightly less obnoxious than much of the competition. And are they ever willing
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to Play Ball.
Columbia's gamble paid off big time; for several months there, it was impossible to watch MTV for more than fourteen seconds without seeing Warrant, and the group's debut album, Dirty Rotten Filthy Stinking Rich, went multi-plutonium. There are things to be said for it: Neither Warrant nor a big-breasted sexpot appears on the cover; the verse of "Heaven" has an estimable melody, "Sometimes She Cries" a sonically monumental chorus; as the avaricious protagonist of the title song, singer Jani Lane brags, "I'm gonna wear exotic animals on my feet," to considerable satirical effect.
But there's precious little to be said for Cherry Pie, which comprises a lot of balls-out rockers based on riffs that were already grievously shopworn when Kiss was learning them off the third Alice Cooper album, and power ballads in the Queen mode, every last one MTV-ready to the max. (The lone anomaly, a pastiche of snippets from Lane's stage patter entitled "Ode to Tipper Gore," makes clear that, as long as it guarantees Lane's right to say naughty words on stage, the First Amendment will always find fervent believers in the Warrant boys.) Now and again in one of the ballads, Lane says something remarkably tender for such a cock of the walk, but Beau Hill, a Mutt Lange wanna-be, gives the album an over-wrought production that invariably bludgeons you into submission before you can savor Lane's sentiments for very long.
The album's packaging is generally more interesting than the music. Highlights include the dedication of the title track to Columbia Records kingpin Don Ienner (when these guys play ball, hey, they play ball) and the note of thanks one of the guitarists extends to all the girls he slept with on the band's last tour.
Ultimately, these guys are about nothing more than their yearning for wealth and sexual power. Virtually every grunt, every shriek, every sixty-fourth-note triplet guitar figure, every pout and tattoo and pelvic thrust in their oeuvre seems calculated to induce white suburban teenagers to marvel and yell, "Rock and roll!" – and to spend more money on Warrant product. In short, Warrant is New Kids on the Block with nipple-length hair and Marshall amps. (RS 589)
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