Part Two of JR's Review of Twelve Shots on the Rocks by Hanoi Rocks

So what else do we have on Twelve Shots? Well, we've got a nice variety of songs, and that's one Hanoi tradition I'm pleased to see continued. From the keyboard-based "Winged Bull," (one of two covers), to the aforementioned hard-rockers, to several mid-paced numbers, we've got quite a musical reach here - a much more diverse sound than we tended to get from Michael and Andy's solo efforts.

Before I go much further, if I am committing the crime of not acknowledging other band members besides Michael and Andy, that may be because the new members are presented more as "sidekicks" on this album. The contrast between this presentation and the past releases is notable, and as such, it's one more slap in the face to Michael and Andy, should they ever again claim that Nasty, Sami, and Razzle were simply their henchmen the first go-around. When you have henchman, guys, it's obvious, and when you don't, that's obvious too. Now you have sidekicks and everyone seems happy with the arrangement. I'd love to leave this subject alone forever, but since there's no mention of these three "classic era" bandmates anywhere on the CD liner, we've got to make these tired rounds one more time. It's been said that Razzle wasn't the world's greatest drummer, but I miss his soulful and distinctive presence more than anything on this record. Nasty and Sami are missed too. A fan I know only as "Rick Rose Rude" said it the best: "What is Hanoi without the guitar interplay of Nasty & Andy? What is Hanoi without Sami's catchy little bass lines that jump out of the mix?" But Nasty and Sami are nowhere to be found, and while nobody in the world can do a thing about Razzle, guys, one more moment of silence, please! A little history wouldn't kill anyone. A "Hanoi Rocks Story" in the liner notes, written for a new generation of fans without such knowledge, would have been an exceedingly classy touch.

Off the soapbox and back to Twelve Shots, where new bandmates Lacu (drums), Timpa (bass), and Costello (guitar) are all quite competent-sounding, if indistinct. Taken as a unit, the band sounds tight. The fresh blood is exactly what Michael and Andy needed. Pink Gibson (a.k.a. Adam Bomb) also did some guitar work here, so we are on shaky ground assuming that Andy is the only one perfecting these riffs and playing these guitar solos. However, since I have no way of verifying, I'm going to give Andy the lion's share of the credit until I'm told otherwise. I hear Andy's presence all over this album, and it's a welcome thing. Yes, the guitars have a more conventional hard-rock sound this time around, but there are some terrifically tasty McCoy-type guitar solos on this record. For starters, check out the solos on "New York," "Watch This," and the end of "Whatcha Want." Some guitarists are virtuosos, peacocks if you will, but Andy doesn't bother with all that puffery. All that's left is the grit and the alcohol and everything Andy's ever lived through. Andy can still grab a groove in mid-air and ride it wherever he wants. To me, he's as good as they come.

But Andy's influence goes beyond solos - he lends a melodic feel to the entire proceedings. Andy is the loose gypsy flow that softens Michael's hard stances, and Michael is the righteous conviction that gives the edge back to Andy's work. Those who have called Twelve Shots a "Michael Monroe solo album with Andy on guitar," frankly, are wrong. Andy's influence has seeped much deeper than that. This is not to say that Michael is not all over this album - at times, Twelve Shots does seem to be excessively about Michael, and not enough about Andy or the band as a whole. Perhaps that's because a number of these songs have been scavenged from Michael's solo work (most notably "Whatcha Want," which caught my eye when I noticed that Michael's upcoming solo album seems to be missing a title track of the same name. At press time, it was learned that these songs were actually recorded at the same time as Michael's solo record, and that Andy had a major hand in choosing which of Michael's songs would become "Hanoi" songs). I never thought I'd be saying this, but Andy may need to ask Michael to make room for him on the next album. How the tables have turned. So yes, the songs are mostly Michael's, but Andy and the others have changed them. I don't know what "Obscured" would have sounded like as a Michael Monroe solo track, but it wouldn't have sounded anything like this. That song is Andy's now too, so let's not treat Andy as Michael's session hand unless he fesses up to such.

Based on the strength of Andy's "A Day Late, A Dollar Short," it would be indeed be great to see more of Andy's own hand on future releases - not just musically, but lyrically as well. Andy was never the most sophisticated lyricist, but he's left us with some unforgettable images: scrapping for change on "Café Avenue," searching for that long-lost Eternal Party in "Tooting Bec Wreck." Hopefully future Hanoi releases will make more demands on Andy's songwriting talents.

There are strange contradictions on this album. For example, while you might think that the best songs would be those that Michael and Andy wrote together, two of the four songs they penned, "Gypsy Boots" and "Lucky," join "Designs on You" as my nominees for "worst track on the album" (though it must be said: there are no terrible songs on this album, just songs that come and go without notice). Another McCoy-Monroe song I was hopeful about, "In My Darkest Moment," is also disappointing. Sadly, two of the best songs on the album, "Obscured" and "Watch This," are both compositions by Michael Monroe and his now-passed wife, Jude Wilder. Jude was clearly a worthy collaborator, and I trust I'm not the only one who will miss her presence as a songwriter in the Monroe camp.

Another weird piece of breaking news: I was really enjoying some of the sax work on Twelve Shots, thinking that Michael is probably the only rock sax player I really like, and how nice it is to hear a bit more of that Hanoi sax sound. But then I learned that Michael didn't play all the sax on this record, and that Sami Yaffa's brother, of all people, is the man responsible for the nice sax work on "A Day Later, A Dollar Short." It's a strange world indeed when there is room on a Hanoi record for Sami's brother but not for Sami himself.

More contradictions: with so much original material at their disposal, why do we have two covers on the album? Wouldn't it have been a better idea to load this album with originals and save the covers for collectible "B sides?" And if the guys are determined to do a cover song, why not pull an "Up Around the Bend," go pragmatic, and pick a cover song that is recognizable enough to stand a chance of shooting up the charts? But before I lodge a formal grievance, I must remember that both of these covers round out the album nicely. "Winged Bull," a Hall and Oates cover of all things, is one of the most soulful and experimental songs on the CD, and it captures a sense of love and loss far better than a certain original on the album we'll get to shortly. Then we have "Delirious," which is a bit of a ripper. Reclaimed from the Jerusalem Slim demo, it too has a special significance. We know Michael still feels bitter about how Jerusalem Slim turned out. We've always wanted him to reclaim the best of those Slim songs for his own, to play them as they were always meant to be played: pared down and full of fire. In the new version of "Delirious," we hear what Jerusalem Slim could have been, and we're glad to hear it even now. So while "no covers" seems like a good idea in theory, it would be a lesser album without them. There are several originals I would sooner drop. Perhaps song selection is the real issue and there's better stuff on the cutting room floor.

Speaking of what "could have been," I find it strange that some of these new songs sound as dated (if not more) than old Hanoi does. I guess when you buck musical trends as decisively as Monroe and McCoy, you run that risk. In particular, I have to single out "In My Darkest Moment," which sounds a bit like the 80s power ballad we were always proud that Hanoi never made. I feel terrible saying this, as this song was clearly meant to be the most personal of all the songs on the record, but the over-the-top delivery is just too bombastic for this delicate flower. The subtlety of a "Fallen Star" approach might have worked a lot better. Perhaps the subject matter is too personal to delve into, but for whatever reason, the song comes off more like a general proclamation than a personal story. The music does the talking better: the guitar and sax solos are the climax of the song. Facing despair with grace is no easy topic, so "In My Darkest Moment" can't really be lumped in with the typical 80s love-like-sap power ballad. Yet try as I might, I can't force my way into the heart of the song. Only the callous would call a song this personal "bad," but while it does reflect a mature artistic effort, "In My Darkest Moment" is not the classic I hoped it would be. I don't hear anything in "Darkest Moment" that connects me to Michael's experience in a specific, jugular way.

Which brings me around to the subject of Michael's lyrics as a whole. Fact is, I feel he is hitting a bit of a lyrical wall. Michael is at his best when he is writing about the problems in the world - he's proven himself to be an adept dissector of the hypocrisies of society, and he's sketched out an apocalyptic vision of the world that is specific enough to be compelling. The only song from that vein on this album is "Watch This," and it's a gem. Not necessarily a lyrical revelation on the order of "Relationshipwrecked," it's still a beautiful tune, honed by Andy's definitive guitar work. "Almost everyone," Michael sings, "Is scared of what they might become," and we feel both his hope and his dread.

Ironically enough, I feel a closer connection to Michael when he's venting his despair about the world than when he's singing about himself. This reminds me of the last Metallica shows I saw, where James Hetfield had taken to snarling out the words to "Nothing Else Matters," a love song unique in the Metallica catalogue due to its naked vulnerability. Yet when Hetfield stopped singing the song and started snarling it, he gored the intimacy right out of it. Michael does his share of snarling on Twelve Shots. He sometimes seems indignant that people want to know what he's all about; he's distrustful of their motives. In Michael's world, it seems, everyone wants a piece of him and nobody on the outside, certainly not a fan, could possibly understand what it's like to be him. Yet it's a complex situation, because he also seems to understand how lucky he is to be victimized in this manner.

The most affecting stars have figured out that the distance between "them" and "us" is not so far after all. Believe us, Michael, we can see you, and to the degree that you've let us in, we know you. Michael has no obligation whatsoever to let us in, but the more he does, the more compelling his songwriting will be. There is something off-putting about lines like "One in a billion born with a baby face like mine" ("Whatcha Want") and "Even rock 'n' rollers need some peace and quiet" ("Gypsy Boots"). It's not so much what's being said as what's missing. What's missing is an acknowledgement that while there is a burden to fame, there is also a pain on the other side of the stage: the pain of being ugly, of being anonymous, of being somebody with no voice or audience. If Michael has it worse than us, if his burdens are more difficult than our obscurity, he has not made that case on Twelve Shots.

Michael has established his lyrical terrain: he's got his fist in the air; he will not compromise; he finds the world to be a cold, exploitive place you get through by keeping your loved ones as close as you can and sticking to your guns. Now we want to know more - more about what he's shaking his fist at, more about the temptations he's reckoned with, more about how he's managed to carry on despite all the loves lost and bridges burned. We sense his inner strength; we know there's a rich well of material for him to draw upon. If Michael continues to grow lyrically, it will be a joy to see. We see some signs of this on "Designs On You," which alludes to the pull of forbidden desire and the pain of unrequited love. Too bad the song itself is as light as tissue paper, because the sentiments are intriguing. But while "Designs on You" is musically unspectacular, Michael does some of his most sensitive singing on this track.

One lyrical direction that seems a bit stale, however, is Michael's "Not bad for a white boy" rap-style boasting he started experimenting with on Life Gets You Dirty. Michael, of all people, has nothing to prove to anyone, so the "nobody can fuck with me" school of songwriting seems a little unnecessary at this point. Give Michael credit for being aware of rap's influence, but one can only hope he will now consider someone like Eminem - someone who's turned the genre on its head through moments of unflinching honesty and self-indictment The bravado of rap was never its most compelling quality, but when bravado works, it works because the raps are so lyrically creative. To establish yourself as a truly bad mofo actually takes a lot of cleverness. Brags like "You can try to work me, you can't hurt me" ("Whatcha Want") and "My reputation precedes me, I always get what's mine in time" ("Gypsy Boots") are far from clever and ultimately rather hollow. We know Michael can take a licking and keep on ticking - we want to know how he got hurt and how he got over it.

Finally, we have to wonder whether these "Michaelized" lyrics always work when you're fronting a band. Some of these lyrics sound more like solo work, which is, of course, what some of them were originally intended to be. So we'll wait and see what the next Hanoi album sounds like before we make too many assumptions here. And there are lyrical bright spots as well - even the aforementioned "Whatcha Want" ends with some cool lines about being locked up with a stranger in a bathroom, "lost in an eight-ball." At this point, gritty storytelling is far preferable to "back off!" posturing. Michael and Andy both have the lyrical goods if they're willing to dig, and that's what they need to do if they want to keep our attention. The days of cranking out "instant classics" are over.

So what's the final word on Twelve Shots? I've always felt that in the end, music critics shouldn't outsmart themselves. I remember being harshly critical of the Jackson Browne album I'm Alive many years ago; I had a lot of fun tearing Jackson Browne a new asshole in my review. And while I still find the album rather stylized, I have listened to it many times over the years. Of course, this makes me a hypocrite. Sometimes I think we have two music fans inside of us: an idealized image of ourselves as a music connoisseur, and then a "guilty pleasure" fan. The "guilty pleasure fan" is the one who controls the turntable when no one else is around, opting for Gordon Lightfoot instead of Godsmack, and it's that fan we are ultimately accountable to. The idealistic Hanoi fan refuses to listen to Twelve Shots on principle; the "guilty pleasure" Hanoi fan has the record playing in the background as they post critiques of the album on Hanoi message boards. If we really want to be fair to Twelve Shots, the ultimate question is NOT how this record stacks up to other Hanoi records, rather, the question is: will we be listening to these songs years from now, when the songs are all that's left?

I know this much already: I can't listen to Twelve Shots straight through. And that's a first, as far as Hanoi albums are concerned. As far-fetched as this may sound, in my world, none of the old Hanoi albums had a bad song on it. Even the unsuccessful experiments had an irreverent charm of their own. Hanoi doesn't have the same luxury anymore. The guys have to put in their time to get the songs now, and some of them suffer from the earnest effort required. "Lucky," for example, is a tosser than might have been more effective years ago, when it would have been churned out as a frenzied afterthought. Now it seems a little overworked. Some songs thrive on such refinement; others are strangled by it. The "old" Hanoi always seemed to understand that, so they refined "Underwater World," but gave us "Nothing New" and "Problem Child" in their purest, unrefined state.

Even though I can't listen to it straight through, Twelve Shots does have a sustained energy that surprises me, perhaps because my bar for rock "reunion" records is so low. Maybe I should call this album Nine Shots, because for me the record pretty much ends after "Watch This" (shot number nine), with "Gypsy Boots," "Lucky," and "Designs On You" being songs I'm not likely to revisit often in the future. But with the exception of those three, along with "In My Darkest Moment," which is not my cup of tea, and "New York City," which hasn't made a very strong impression, I'm left with seven lasting "shots." There's the "in your face" triplet of "Obscured," "Whatcha Want" and "People Like Me," and then there's the other four: "A Day Late, A Dollar Short" being vintage McCoy (rounded out by a "Monroe-esque" sax effort by Sami's brother Jone), "Winged Bull" and "Delirious" being strong covers, and "Watch This" being uniquely Michael-filtered-through-Andy. "A Day Late" is a revelation - now we know what Andy's solo work would have sounded like with Michael doing the heavy lifting on the vocals: great! So all in all, we've got plenty of shots hitting their targets. So while I can't listen to the record straight through, Guilty Pleasure Music Fan will be listening to "Watch This" and "People Like Me" in the years to come; I can play "Winged Bull" over and over when the mood is right; and "Obscured" will always have a place on my road mix. Surely other fans will differ with my personal faves, but I'm betting that most will find a few of their own, and, perhaps for the first time, they'll find Hanoi songs they are truly indifferent to. Now THAT is going to take some getting used to.

No, this is not Hanoi Rocks as I once knew them and (selfishly) like to remember them. But it IS the best rock album I've heard in 2002 (admittedly a rather dubious award). No, Twelve Shots is not shockingly bold or innovative. But if this record is not destined to be as influential as the Hanoi of old, it's still got a surprising vitality - enough to convince a few skeptics and win a fair number of new fans as well (try to imagine new fans checking out the old albums and asking, "What is all the fuss about? The new stuff is so much better." Believe me, it will happen.). Even if you're determined not to like Twelve Shots and refuse to consider it Hanoi Rocks, you won't be able to fight it off completely. No, the "new Hanoi" is not about to rocket to superstardom; but in an age of musical conformity and pre-packaged sounds, this kind of stick-to-your-guns rock is far from irrelevant. They may not be as beautiful to look at, but Michael and Andy are still on top of their game. They still don't give a fuck, and while there is an undeniable financial pragmatism in this incarnation of Hanoi Rocks, they sure don't act like chaps who can be bought for a song.

In the end, the most valid comparison is between Twelve Shots and the solo efforts of Michael and Andy themselves. And overall, this record is superior to any of the solo efforts, although I would make an exception for the Suicide Twins, who were quite spotty but occasionally deeply moving; and Demolition 23, who were less diverse but also more inspired. But while those two bands were special, their recorded work does not exhibit the songwriting range of Twelve Shots.

By "reforming" Hanoi Rocks, Michael and Andy claimed a hallowed name and raised the bar beyond anything mere mortals could aspire to. So of course they have no hope of matching their own legacy - but for that matter, neither do the Strokes, the Vines, Blink 182, or Papa Roach. Twelve Shots reunites two rock 'n' roll originals. They may be unknown to a new generation, but we know them well. They're our guys, and no one's going to come along to take their place. They're flawed; they're unrepentant; they're incorrigible. They're also hugely talented; they could have cashed in their chips long ago, and they never did. Frankly, I admire the motherfucking hell out of both of them.

---

This review is dedicated to journalist Dave Dickson, whose writings on Hanoi Rocks set the standard the rest of us can only try to live up to.

Thanks to Rachel and Xan for the editorial guidance.

Go to JR's Interview with Dave Dickson table of contents

Go to JR's "Writing on Hanoi Rocks" Index Page