Tucked away in the corner of this week’s NME charts, between Pendulum’s horrific drum n’bass and The xx, indie band no. 567898 (although they’re pretty good, and of my personal favourites- but don’t tell anyone), was a single paragraph dedicated to an album that, by rights, should have the rock and metal community in at least something of suspended curiosity, apprehension at the worst. After the dismal little glimmer of obscurity that was Slash’s Snakepit, the hairy one-hit-wonder of the guitar world returns once again to pretend that he ever had a good idea beyond Sweet Child O’Mine, and even that’s been overplayed to the death by lazy, pretentious teenagers. It’s a decent riff, granted, but shut the fuck up. Apparently it’s even been added to the guitar store blacklist along with Smoke On The Water and Stairway To Heaven of what NOT to play while trying out that Epiphone Les Paul imitation because you absolutely NEED to have the same guitar that Slash plays, man, because he’s just so cool!

In a way, you can pity Slash. His only selling point today seems to be the fact that 13 year old wannabes consider him the end-all of guitar playing. I’m sure he’d love to be taken seriously, but then, so would everyone on the X-Factor. He hasn’t done anything relevant since Guns N’Roses, yet somehow manages to project himself into the new generation of rockers- by appearing on games like Guitar Hero as a playable character, in Sacha Baron Cohen’s film “Brüno” in a musical cameo, and in any magazine that wanted to get someone badmouthing Axl during the release of Chinese Democracy. So what is this album- a cry for help, an affirmation of modern relevance, or simply the product of a bored, rich musician with opinions of himself that don’t exactly coincide with reality? Let’s have a listen.

The first thing you notice is the impressive list of guest singers. Every track has a guest vocalist (because 13 year old fanboys can’t handle an instrumental album) of rather high fame, including Ian Astbury, Ozzy Osbourne, Lemmy and Iggy Pop. So far, so good. Further perusal, however, reveals Fergie (of the Black Eyed Peas), M. Shadows (of Avenged Sevenfold), Adam Levine (of Maroon5), Myles Kennedy (of Alter Bridge) and Andrew Stockdale (of Wolfmother). I need not state the obvious reaction. What on earth was Slash thinking? Does he like these bands? Or did he just want to sell more records? Surprisingly, the songs with Fergie and M.Shadows are among the better on the record, despite the latter’s best attempts at sounding like a castrated cat.

Which brings us to the next thing- the musicianship. If this didn’t have the guy’s name sprawled in horrible graffiti across the cover, I’d never have guessed it was Slash playing. His “trademark” melody-blasting solos were so unlike what you’d expect from the guy who wrote the solo to Paradise City that I hardly even noticed when they happened, and more often than not needed to actively strain myself to concentrate on them. Not a single memorable riff stuck with me throughout the whole album. Under-produced, pathetically limp, obviously designed for a specific market to an extent that would have Malcolm MacLaren spinning like a goddamn dreidle in his fresh grave. This ain’t rock n’roll (despite having all the original Guns N’Roses, except for Axl, as guest musicians on a few songs), it’s Slash blatantly capitalizing on his image. Boring, uninspired rock n’roll. Some cute songs, but nowhere near worth the buy.