June 17, 1999
Like the dumb sheep consumer they want me to be, I converted all my tapes to CDs around 1989, and G'N'R got lost in the shuffle. More recently, I bought a car bereft of frills such as A/C, power steering or a CD player, and so have been frantically digging through old boxes searching for ANYTHING on tape so that I wouldn't have to listen to that goddamn Ricky Martin. Turned up a lot of mid-period Pink Floyd, Rush, and other mistakes from my high school years, but I knew something was missing. Having not heard Appetite For Destruction in full for about a decade, I bought it - on tape - for five American dollars last week. Perfect. The antiseptic sonic clarity of CDs, gently sliding the disc into the dashboard; this just doesn't compare with digging through old fries, sticky coins and pens under the seat, grabbing the tape and slamming it into the deck to hear Axl's guttural howl welcome me to The Jungle. ("You're gonna die….")
It's been a guilty pleasure all week, this cheap slab of magnetic tape, but it's so damn fun. This album is nasty, mean and loud, prime-time 80's metal with a dash of glam that only emphasizes the grit. Paranoia ("Out Ta Get Me"), escapism ("Paradise City"), sleazy misogyny ("It's So Easy") - in the context of this album, the tender "Sweet Child of Mine" is truly bizarre. If Sheryl Crow really knew what was up, she would have covered the supremely rockin' "Mr. Brownstone," Axl's sneering ode to heroin. Slash and Izzy trade grubby riffs and shrieking solos while the undulating Rose screeches, moans and adds "aye-ee-aye" to the end of every lyric: Just the antidote I needed. Ricky Martin wants to take your girl to the club - Axl wants to bend her over his Camaro. Once I've popped Appetite in and out of the deck enough to wear off the letters, it's on to AC/DC's Back In Black.
- Jared O'Connor
G and F-in R, baby