Monolithic Baby is all about old skool rawk and while it seems like harmless fun on first listen, you soon start to remember that this kind of pre-pubescent rifforama wasn’t exactly life-changing stuff first time around. This New Jersey quartet have been on the go for a decade or so, but it is only since thoroughbred rock ‘n’ roll has made a return to the mainstream that the majority of listeners are starting to sit up and take notice, apart from in Germany, where they have always enjoyed a loyal following.
Sometimes their sound isn’t a million miles away from antipodean upstarts The Datsuns, as straight-ahead rockers like ‘Slut Machine’ and ‘Supercruel’ will testify, although there’s also a frightening percentage of late-80s cock rock thrown into the equation. This is all about peeling yourself into the tightest pair of leather trousers in Christendom, cranking the amps up to 11 and getting your riffs out for the lads. Power chords abound, alongside four-to-the-floor drumming and the kind of twiddly six-string solos beloved of air guitarists the world over. There’s nothing wrong with letting your hair down and having some fun – even this reviewer gets pissed off with poe-faced songwriters after a while – but 55 minutes of Skid Row cast-offs is far too much for one man to take.
Some tracks, like the aforementioned ‘Slut Machine’ and the Cult-like title track do have a certain dumb-ass appeal, but too much of Monolithic Baby sounds like it was recorded back in 1987, when bands like Bon Jovi and Whitesnake ruled the world.
‘On The Verge’ could be a piss-take, such is its rawk-by-numbers approach. A cover of ex-Hawkwind vocalist Robert Calvert’s ‘The Right Stuff’ is dirge-like and their take on Dave Gilmour’s ‘There’s No Way Out Of Here’ is similarly uninspiring. Meanwhile ‘Unbroken (Hotel baby)’, ‘Ultimate Everything’ and the truly execrable ‘Master Of Light’ could have been recorded by (shudder) Motley Crue or Poison.
I’m all for a return to rock’s raw roots, but this vapid, soul-less singalong is far from what the doctor ordered, even for today’s post-ironic Darkness-loving teenagers. Please don’t make them famous.