In which Tommy Lee pukes his mind into the stuffy basin of his frat house and... well, nothing much else happens, really. Hmm. What else would you expect from a man whose brains are smaller than his dick?
Tommy-mania will no doubt ensue in the coming months, when we get to see him hitting some books in some program about his adventures in college. This is the tie-in single, and whoever writes the 'Bizarre!' column in The Sun loves it. I think he’s even playing live drums in a couple of DJ sets around Shoreditch-way. Regardless of this fact, I hope he doesn’t find my house just up the Kingsland road - because, with crushing predictability, this song is awful.
This record is the sound of a man detached from his surroundings; every second is a crisis that Tommy seems oblivious to. Every second is a step closer to him becoming not just a faded, sleazy rock-pig; but the sleazy rock-pig friend to that infamous group of songwriters – J. Blunt, C. Martin, F. Healy – who may just have perfected the craft of music making to such an extent that they are able to force its insides out through a straw. Guts sucked out, walls fall’n in; Prom-king Tommy writes galaxies full of musical vacuum that numb the brain like heaped barbital, (‘cept he never wrote this, some man did, somewhere and no-one I know knows his name. Do you?).
Ah who cares, just chuck me some more weak, pissy beer…Rock on, brah! Yeah.