They strode out of the desert, dayglo sex-warriors with flash metal guitars and songs about fucking while the bombs dropped. Back then, bands just didn’t come from sun-baked dust-bowls like Phoenix, Arizona (they still don’t, really), so there was a glint of the exotic and alien in these hairsprayed he-harlots, spreading from their oddly mangled bright-red fishnets (hastily acquired and destroyed just minutes before their debut album’s photoshoot, if the legend is to be believed) to their sorta-familiar, yet highly idiosyncratic approach to Sunset Strip ass-rock.
It’s like they were outsider artists emulating Mötley Crüe, escapees from the local psychiatric hospital with twisted, fevered visions of their own private LA. Of course, they were snapped up by a major label – how could they not be? Who wouldn’t want to present this gorgeous lunacy to the world?
