Out of the horde of hair metal bands from the 80's, Winger was one that got a bad rap for a number of reasons - one of them being that their most notable song celebrated underage relations. All of the members had paid their dues as part of other groups (most notably Kip Winger with the comeback version of Alice Cooper), and eventually came together in New York City to form Winger. They had reasons to be confident, they were experienced and professional enough, and despite the show-off tone at certain points ("Seventeen", "Poison Angel"), there is a mature, evocative thread running through the record, making it one of the better second-wave glam debuts.

Three albums into their career, as one reviewer on Amazon put it, Winger took the "kid gloves off", shed their prevailing hair metal image, and put out an album which really showcased their virtuoso talents. Or so they would have us believe. I'm not saying that Pull - ironically titled for what people were doing with Winger CD's, in the wake of the grunge movement - is a bad disc, or that it does not meet up to the band's own lofty standards. In fact, it would seem, going by the downtrodden, heavily sarcastic mood of many of these tracks, that the band was all too aware of their notorious reputation, and was not above using it as a tool at their disposal - especially if they thought it made the music more interesting. And it does, to a certain extent. But when is it too much, and more importantly, maybe it's not as fun as the old days of the synth-intertwining power ballads and sleaze rockers dripping with professional sheen?

Before they hit their notorious 80's high water mark on MTV, Twisted Sister was a long-struggling bar band who had been through innumerable lineup changes that would have killed the dreams of most aspiring rock stars. This was a major part of what built up the hype that eventually made them so notorious, but a nasty little side effect was that often the recorded output didn't match up. Case in point - their debut album. One of two recorded in the U.K. - the group had to move there as no record company in the U.S. was even remotely interested - Under The Blade is a disarming mix of glam rock and New York-area Street attitude, heavily influenced by Queen and Judas Priest. The campy feel of their look does not come across very well in their songs, at least not at this point. Maybe the low-budget production is to blame, and it's not for lack of trying. A special edition of this CD includes their earlier Ruff Cuts EP and a live version of "Shoot 'em Down".

This album, for me, is where Tucky Buzzard starts declaring themselves as a force to be reckoned with, even though the identity crisis issue still remains. They kind of sound like the Stones, the Faces, and early Mott the Hoople, or a frenzied combination of the three put together, but that is the worst thing you could say about Warm Slash. Otherwise, this is a tough, hard-hitting affair which is not too flashy, and is a bit of a precursor attitude-wise to the British Heavy Metal bands that came along later in the decade. The first two tracks get right to the point – “Mistreating Woman” and the rather raunchy “(She’s A) Striker” – but after that, the album branches into some interesting avenues, as you could tell TB was looking to break into some more progressive areas on lengthier exercises like “Which Way, When for Why” and the lost-sounding “Sky Balloon”. But the honor of deepest, darkest beast on this puppy by far goes to “Heartbreaker”, which is just dastardly as far as tone goes, as if the band wants to kick your ass, break your heart, and shove you down a hole and bury you at the same time. Not to mention, the picture of them on the cover, with chests exposed, as if ready for a street fight right there and then….Of course, the big mark against this album is the very grumbly tone which drives this thing, and we do not get much variation from it. And don’t think of putting “Ain’t Too Soon” in the happy category – not even close. So, they end up with the mark of sheer competence, in the long run, for this down-and-dirty rum-and-coke kind of album.

Well, at least we know someone had their ears to their ground when over-driven lummox rock like Vanilla Fudge and Sir Lord Baltimore’s Kingdom Come had made the rounds a few years before this monstrous tome was released. All the way from the former West Germany came this lineup of yahoos who were about as far removed from the spacey communal Krautrock scene as possible. One thing I’m really surprised about is, across the board, how much people seem to dig this album. I go the other way – there is something about this experience which makes me nauseous, which is odd, because normally this kind of music is in the ballpark with stuff I normally listen to. But TBS cranks everything to such incredulous levels – especially song lengths – that about the only thing they succeed in doing here is tiring me out. There is a grand total of five tracks here and not one of them runs less than five minutes, but for me, they all seem like they run twice as long. Plus, the lead singer has a thick accent which gives his vocals a rather strange effect that I find annoying. Like if Leslie West had a really bad cold, tried to sing with food stuffed in his mouth, and English was not his first language, either. Nothing here is even remotely close to being original, but then again, these guys just want to rock out, thick and HEAVY – which I do not have a problem with. But when your template is the overwrought metal-meets-organ dirges of Vanilla Fudge, as it is on “These Days”, or the admittedly hilarious but still third-rate over-driven chicanery of Sir Lord Baltimore (“Tiger Rock”, which starts with actual tiger roars), I start to view you with suspicion. It improves somewhat on the next couple of tracks (“Everything I Need”, “To Hell”, which features a rather muddled spoken-word section), but those are obscured by far longer run times and the same issues affecting everything else here – feigned outrageousness and unnecessary repetition. “Tiger Blues” finishes this thing off with another overlong exercise, this one in the blues realm, and then the tiger roar comes on again at the very end. Thank God. And that cover. It’s like Arnold Horshack took too much acid and thought he was a rock star. The 70’s were great for music but horrible for imagery. Avoid.