People are always asking me «Do I like rock music?». And, yeah, you know, I would really like to be able to say «Yes, I do.» without having to modify or qualify the answer in any way. That this was something easily admitted and didn’t involve the many connotations it does. One of those unfortunate connotations that leave me without any choice, vain as I am about my musical taste, when it comes to answering the imposing question of rock music («No, or well, yeah, but I’m mostly into early punk and new wave, stuff like This or That»), is The Cute Crash Combo. Shamelessly and tastelessly ravishing the musical heritage of the West Coast 1980’s and other should-be forgotten scenes of the not too distant past, The CCC’s self-titled debut is as generic as an Oslo metal club or a McDonald’s cheeseburger. This sounds like a fucking franchise and trust me, blandness is guaranteed.
The generic pseudo-rock’n’roll lyrics («Don’t want to live on my knees, I want to die on my feet, life is a bitch and you know» Come on! Really?) and the glaring absence of an original thought or idea in the instrumental department aside, what really kills the CCC almost instantly is the vocals. Somewhere on the border between Axl Rose with a cold and Bullet for My Valentine’s more melodic efforts, lead singer Stuberg is attempting a full frontal assault on all that is beautiful in general and my eardrums specifically. Stripped of class and any sort of variation on that 80’s sounding vocal masturbation, he churns out the lyrics in a charmless Norwenglish that makes me agree with the recent protests from artists like DumDum Boys and CC Cowboys that Norwegians should stick to their own language when writing songs. I don’t know if that would have helped the CCC in any way (rather unlikely, unless they change their entire sound, image and, well… you get the picture), but this is in every way substandard.
Honestly, I find it hard to say anything positive about The Cute Crash Combo’s debut album. This is rock’n’roll at its most dumbed-down and indolent, a little party monster from the yuppie times past that just doesn’t want to go away, the rock star in the LifeTime movie, the cliché perpetuated by the likes of Mötley Crüe. Listen to “Appetite For Destruction” instead. And that’s coming from Guns’n’Roses’ most fervent anti-fan. They get one point up for the intro on “Avalanche”. They lose half of that when the vocals enter. Horrible.
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