Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but a backlash seems to be brewing against the multitude of weepy, whiny bands that have polluted the airwaves for so long. The latest group to put these angst-peddlers on the run is Towers of London, five guys with the raw energy of the Sex Pistols, the exuberance of Def Leppard, and the cocky swagger of the New York Dolls. They may not be the ones who turn the tide, but with any luck, they’ll help remind people of a time when rock meant something — namely booze, leather, and late nights.

People buying Blood, Sweat and Towers looking for intellectual fulfillment or songs to embody their pain will be sorely disappointed. The Towers command about as much subtlety as Mötley Crüe, playing with a loose, raunchy style that’s glam enough to have sex appeal, but punk enough to have spine. It’s more than evident on the track “Beaujolais,” a song that sounds like vintage Guns N’ Roses covering a long-lost T. Rex outtake. The new album is not without its missteps, but they’re minor complaints when you consider the context. This isn’t an album to appreciate — it’s one to experience.

This article appears in Oct 4-10, 2006.