Say "Yeah!" To Fuel's Wicked Airheaded Hard Rock

I am a bored human being. I seek entertainment. I have standards but if the right source came along I'd be there in a heartbeat. Enter Fuel, the band whose "Hemorrhage (In My Hands) touched a divinely sensitive nerve back when the millennium was new and boy bands hadn't been summarily hauled away to the gas chamber. Take note, if "Yeah", the first cut from "Puppet Strings" is any indication, the Fuel of 2014 is a different make and model. That can't be devil horn sign flashing hard rock can it? You bet your ass it is. You may seek comfort in knowing you won't learn anything from the song, except how to air guitar like a beast. Andy Andersson wails away, leaving gallons of sweat in his wake. Bassist Brad Stewart hits his stride immediately. You could likely do an effective mattress shaking to that dexterously assmebled slickness. And what fun would a headbanging party be without a maniacal drummer behaving as if the sedatives hadn't set in for an inexcusably long stretch. Thanks Shannon Boone for zapping us back to the '80s for a lid lifter you're not likely to see duplicated anytime soon. To add some factual depth to this review I'll mention that Fuel, based in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, has been around since 1989, which could explain why hard rock explosions were an effortless fit on "Yeah". Fuel's current lineup has had less longevity. Brett Scallions has been the lone mainstay. He's got chops for sure. The intoxicating bad boy image common to a lot of metal singers shows up clearly in his performance. Grizzly around the edges, aching for action. Back to Andy. He's been a gear in the band's supersonic machine since 2011. He's proven a quick study if the bridge solo is any indication. He goes so fast and so fancy free one ought to him arrested, the charge being possession of excess awesome. We average folk couldn't ascend to his level in a month of Sundays. Shannon Boone hopped aboard Fuel last year. Obviously he has fifth, sixth, and even seventh gear of his kit figured out. Don't waste time musing about how he puts it together. Be glad he has the toolbox armed and ready. Brad's been crafting his inner macho since 2010, the same year Fuel reformed. That long haired lady in a dress popping up in the lyrics comes to us straight from the backstreets of Penelope Spheeris's metal documentaries. Fishnet hose optional but not a must for loosening libidos. The "something more" in the second verse requires no translation. Thankfully neither does the chorus. Why does unabashedly caveman rock music hit my sweet spot easier than unabashedly caveman hip hop? Only the most mysterious reaches of the universe know for sure. Chords fly about at the right spots, thus kicking complacency in the balls. You buy the ticket, you deal with the mysterious hairpin turns of the journey. The refueled Fuel purrs like a optimally satisfied sex kitten. After you've taken this doozy for a test spin you'll be chomping at the bit for another joyride. One exclamatory rallying cry adds up to prickly heat inducing pleasure. I have become a much less bored human being.