Guns N’ Roses

Axl Rose steps off a Greyhound bus with nothing but a suitcase and a piece of hay between his teeth. It’s the opening shot of Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle” video: The Hoosier rebel has arrived in Hollywood. Twenty-one years have passed since that image introduced the prefab rock star to the world. A bewildering two thirds of that time has been spent awaiting the Gunners’ third original album, Chinese Democracy. After a $13 million tab on Geffen Records and complete turnover of band members, Axl’s opus is easily the most financially irrecoupable album of all time, if not the most anticipated.

The absurd story of Democracy’s creation manages to remain more entertaining than the baffling music within—a patchwork of synthetic soft-rock and computer-assembled funk metal. The dense mix speaks to the decade spent maniacally tweaking these songs. Axl caulks every crevice with trip-hop breaks, French horns, flamenco guitars, DJ scratching, multitracked vocals, etc. The bridge in “Madagascar” alone piles on MLK’s “Dream” speech, Cool Hand Luke dialogue and strings.

The only salient elements throughout are Axl’s outlandish banshee howl and numerous ludicrous guitar solos. As the album dips into Andrew Lloyd Webber–like treacle (“This I Love”), these rock & roll handles keep the affair uniquely Guns N’ Roses. Axl’s vocal range shows no sign of aging; he soars from his Sam Kinison growl to band-saw wail, as his emotions fluctuate from belligerent to paranoid. In the album’s most revealing moment, one unique to its genesis, the singer follows the line “the world is on top of me” with “nothing is stopping me.” They were clearly recorded in different eras.

Slash’s replacements, Bumblefoot and Buckethead (Axl loves monomial guitarists), make their instrument mimic the cry of a peregrine falcon, R2-D2 gargling, car alarms and Stevie Ray Vaughan freestylin’ atop a mesa.

After the eternal wait, it’s hard to say this mess sounds finished. Slower numbers like “Sorry” and “Better” could pass for the GN’R of old, but there’s scant trace of the sleazy bar band of 1987. One listen is a fascinating yet anticlimatic Spruce Goose ride: As with any creation of quixotic madness, the album is ideal only in the imaginations of the public and the artist.

Even the best song, the “Hey Jude”–ish “Catcher in the Rye,” is severely overdecorated. Asking why is like pondering Elvis’s motivation for turning his living room into a fake safari hut. “Welcome to the Jungle,” indeed.

Click here to read more album reviews.