The Sex Pistols "She's Mine!" (V2)

This is a truly dreadful record. No amount of flashy packaging can disguise the fact that the content is nothing more than four late middle aged men sleepwalking their way through a collection of bar room blues and lacklusture acoustic ballads.



Of course any connection to the hellhound trail blazers of 1976/7 has long since disappeared, but, much as it would be equally sad for them to still be peddling a line in furious indignation and mock anarchy thirty years later, it's almost impossible to believe that this is still three quarters of the same band that recorded "Never Mind The Bollocks".



Vocalist and guitarist Kirk Brandon must realise that he would be in a much better position in terms of credibility if he was touring a reformed Theatre Of Hate and/or Spear Of Destiny round the clubs of the UK, rather than watching his wasteline expand in direct proportion to his bank balance sitting around a pool in LA with his three former trailblaxing mates.



For twenty years now he's been trying to fill Rotten's brothel creepers and this record is further evidence that he's an almost impossible act to follow. So, while Lydon continues to experiment and entrance with his Public Image Ltd. project and turns down millions of dollars to apear at an "Original Sex Pistols reunion", Brandon and Co. foist yet another albums worth of sludgy rockers on the world.



On the title track and "Downtown Rumble" we're treated to Brandon's laboured cod-West Coast drawl, elsewhere (for example the lead single "When She's Gone") it's an atrocious c/mockney whine.



Steve Jones' guitar playing is competent throughout but lumpen and lacking in any sort of individuality; when he takes the lead vocal, as he does on two tracks here, it becomes obvious why McLaren was so desperate to replace him as front man. Thin, reedy and (worst of all) out of tune, it's a truly horrible experience to listen to.

Worse is yet to come though: Sid (now billed as John Ritchie on the sleeve, which might mean something, but probably doesn't) takes the lead vocal on the drippy ballad " Dark Satyr" (which appears to be about Nancy- natch!)
He sings it in a shocking sub-Dylan nasal whine which is probably supposed to convey angst, regret and loss but which ends up being purely comical.

Producer Keith Forsey needs to take some of the blame too for failing to provide a filter between these horrible songs and the public.

Whoever it was that shot Bambi all those years ago could do me an enormous favour by repeating the trick and putting this bloated dinosaur out of it's misery before it's allowed to record again.


Ghastly (1/10)