Black Butterfly

AMG Review of Black Butterfly

Stephen Thomas Erlewine
All Music Guide

Has any party band been less rock & roll fun than Buckcherry? Self-appointed saviors of sleaze, the L.A. scuzz rockers are disciples of the Sunset Strip circa 1987, singing songs of crazy bitches and cocaine, scored to second-hand Aerosmith rip-offs stripped of boogie so they're turned into lead-footed stomps. Rock & roll doesn't need to be complicated -- it's often better if it isn't -- but if it's going to be the soundtrack for a night of binge drinking at strip clubs, it damn well better make wallowing in filth sound irresistible, not drudging. Buckcherry dutifully hit all their marks on their fourth album Black Butterfly -- the greasy guitar, the snake-dancing vocals, rhythms designed with a Texas lapdance in mind -- so that makes the record no different in form or function than their other LPs. Here, they piss on the Dead Kennedys, swipe power ballads from Mötley Crüe, and pluck Guns N' Roses. This could be tempting toxicity -- music you know is bad for you but you can't resist.