Putting its abject, aesthetic abomination of a band name aside, supergroup Chickenfoot are—and admitting this feels wrong in so many ways—more fun than three barrels of monkeys, or at least more fun than half a case of Cabo Wabo-brand tequila. Debut Chickenfoot is more or less '80s cock-rawk cliché city, with lots of het-up "yeahs" and guitar solos threatening to spiral outta control, along with more subtle-as-a-bomb sexual innuendos than you can shake an Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery DVD at. At the same time, who else in rock right now has the balls to run rampant with this sort of graying horny-toad tomfoolery? In their way, songs like "Sexy Little Thing" and "My Kinda Girl" are more shocking than anything else happening in popular music right now. Let's hope Chickenfoot can last longer than Velvet Revolver did—if only to keep singer Sammy Hagar's career alive, to keep Joe Satriani's digits limber, and to waylay indefinitely, by way of drummer Chad Smith's involvement, the release of yet another insipid Red Hot Chili Peppers snoozer. All ages. (Photo by Art Bromage)
Mon., Aug. 10, 6:30 p.m., 2009
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