Last month,
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royally pissed off their idiot fans by releasing a song that wasn’t yet another grandiose tornado of wild-eyed wailing and electro-baroque pomposity. After an industrious career of writing the same song fifty times, they wrote— god forbid— a different song. Any credit I might be tempted to give
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for sticking it to dorks who like their usual material is instantly wiped away by the fact that their new single, “
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,” sounds like the Fatboy Slim remix of Lenny Kravitz imitating Prince. If you’re going to change your musical direction,
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, try to avoid changing your direction off the edge of a goddamn cliff.
Elsewhere, the album remains true to the perennial
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motto of “more is more,” and they are, as always, as overblown as Ron Jeremy’s flagellum in 1985. The album’s second single, “
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,” sounds like the theme song to a wild-west Highlander sequel set in Freddie Mercury’s butt. To call the album “bombastic” would be a gross understatement. It’s so grandiose that it makes chandeliers and Faberge eggs obsolete. It’s so flamboyant that it makes Richard Simmons look like Humphrey Bogart. It’s so ostentatious that it would make Liberace’s finest jacket blush.