By Lauren Wise
By Anthony Sandoval
By New Times Staff
By Chris Parker
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Lauren Wise
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Chase Kamp
The Book of Love
The Book of Love's album cover depicts morbidly vegetated Air Supply founders Graham Russell and Russell Hitchcock, relaxed on a hillside in the middle of Utah (?), enjoying nature's beauty and mutual love of mankind and all things serene and gentle like they found The Secret. The insert booklet photos are rife with the same reverent, self-satisfied, turd-devouring grins and honed, homeopathic horseshit.
And even worse is the listen: "Let's Stay Together Tonight" is an airy, gramps-in-luv confessional in which strings are keyboards are guitars are flutes are whatever are . . . zzzzz, and it ticks in at a full seven-plus minutes, while "Once" is too "contrite" fer lyrics (and melody), so they left it word-free, guaranteeing yet another good night's rest.
But the best laughs come in the press-kit bio in which Graham and Russell are said to have seen a lot of new fans of late (pure hogwash: When was the last time they fuckin' toured?), "particularly young women who enjoy the great romantic classics and who love the band's spirit of inclusion and respect." Huh?
Uh-oh. Mothers, lock up yer daughters, 'cause it ain't Hanson ya gotta worry about; it's old men Air Supply, and they're comin' to yer town soon!
Speaking of pedophiles and whatnot, how about the second guy who quit the mighty Stones and lived? Boy Howdy, I'll tell ya, them Stones guys are losin' their touch, leavin' survivors hangin' around and such. Too bad. If only Lord Jones and Lady Pallenberg were still screwin' and gettin' caught with drugs in Spain and makin' a mockery of cops and high-rankin' UK officials, then maybe rock 'n' roll would be, uh . . . somethin' . . . maybe real? Whaddya thinks?
Ain't ya sick-ta-death of buying into record-company mechanical marketing muck which insists they're hawking the Real Deal, but when ya lay out the $$$ and get it in yer room and let her spin, yer hopes of goose-bumped heaven are deflated by some crap-fisted shite merchant, a diametric opposite of what they had originally claimed?
On this recording, Bill Wyman sings a Creedence tune ("Green River") and covers such anomalies as "Tobacco Road," "Jitterbug Boogie," "Motorvatin' Mama" and others to an unforgivable new low ebb.
And, of course, geezers Eric Clapton, Peter Frampton (?) and Albert Lee play guitar on some, doing little to sweeten the character-free voice of old man bass. Oh, Brian Jones, will ya please come home? . . . Please?
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