Especially when you’re old enough to be someone’s fucking grandad. Drug references and howling about how rock and roll you are so fucking out of date it’s nearly as cringeworthy as being called “Famalam” by a white teenager whose home village has a fucking Rolls-Royce dealership in the middle of it. The old one who would be wearing tight blue Levi jeans, and the original Ritchie Blackmore’s Rainbow t-shirt, barely covering their expanding paunch and still trying to get off with the young ladies who were obviously and vocally repulsed by them. In fact, you’re the kind of man who teenage Dark Juan used to mock and revile in Jilly’s Rockworld back in the Nineties. Kory, drugs ain’t fucking cool and when you’re a fifty-something man who performs (judging by the EPK picture I have of him) in a pair of trousers BADLY in need of repair, you frankly just make yourself look like a bit of a tit. He also writes lyrics that are fucking stuck in hair metal heaven, chock full of bone-headed sex and meaningless, unimpressive swaggering. ![]() A band that released a passable record in the early Nineties and appear to have been fooled into thinking that the difficult second album can be put off indefinitely by releasing hare-brained, turgid, “gritty” rock and roll platters on a regular basis, with vocals (I hesitate to call it singing) from a man who looks like he should live on a low-rent Florida trailer park and sounds like the Marlboro Red habit is going to cause health issues to him very soon. I am in fact excruciatingly white and Northern) to bring you this exquisitely crafted review of… sigh… Warrior bloody Soul. I am NO-ONE’S fucking famalam and I am not from fucking Tower bastard Hamlets. He’s from an affluent area and INSISTS on addressing me as “Blood” or “Fam”, or even more horrifically, “Famalam”. However, Dark Juan is not cowed by poor fortune (and a VERY poor monetary fortune) and has risen above the horror of the past 48 hours at work (one of my young gentlemen refused to be effectively wrangled and also refused to understand just why a 1922 Chateau Yquem is an excellent accompaniment to a meat course, leading to a disagreement that lasted several hours and some mild bruising on my part. Whether it was the black Vauxhall Astra that tried T-boning me from a side-street this morning, provoking what can only be described as a sage and responsible and polite exchange of views with the “driver” of it or the fact that the august and otherwise sensible Beth “You’ll Pay For Your Crimes In Whatever Manner I See Fit, You Massive Twat” Jones assigned me this pile of foetid rat wank to review, it does sometimes feel that Dark Juan is on to a bit of a loser. There are times I think that fate is out to get me. ![]() Score: Just don’t fucking bother, OK? The Patented Dark Juan Blood Splat Rating System doesn’t go below -10,000,000/10. Warrior Soul – Out On Bail (after being sentenced to imprisonment for crimes against music)
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