If glampomp and gluttony were Olympic sports then my friends, we have found our gold medallist. London’s provocateur of pimped trash-punk proportions squeezes everything shameless and guilt free from T. Rex and Queen, and Spiders to Diamond Dogs glamour-tramp era Bowie, into something updated and shamefully pleasurable.
It’s a monster, it’s sprawling, it takes over speakers like spray paint on canvas and permeates every sinew and tissue. OK, it’s the bare naked chest of its heroes, but you got that from the name and the artwork (Beau Bowen… Mark Bolen, Bowie, it’s naked!). What you might not expect is the ferocity, faith and downright balls-out homage that captures that freedom so perfectly.
I’m in awe but don’t understand why… I know New York Dolls can’t be sullied, they did that themselves with their own later albums, and I know that spark can’t be surpassed. But I’m snake-hipped and leathered up, and wrapped up in sleaze that’s been lathered in grandeur and guts.
Ever wondered what cock rock and hair metal had in common with the likes of both Meatloaf and Slade? Ever thought you might want that kick back to the past without old vinyl crackle or (gasp….) tribute gigs? Then this album is your chance to answer those questions and maintain ACDC sized pride.
From one sleazeglam genre-hopping whore to another, Beau Bowen is no Anticlimax – Dick Venom (I mean, Will Wilkinson)