I was instructed to post this video because, in the wise words of Third World Timmy, “People love these jailbait chicks for some reason.” When I actually watched the video, I was pretty underwhelmed and didn’t understand the urgency behind Tim’s message. Then I read the accompanying press release and discovered the frontwoman for the Pretty Reckless is none other than Taylor Momsen, the 16-year old Gossip Girl heartbreaker who also, once upon a time, played a pretty large part in one of Tim and Mr. 51%’s all-time favorite movies: How The Grinch Stole Christmas (or, as I call it, Jim Carrey’s Vanity Knows No Bounds, and Ron Howard Is A Dumbass.) Anyway, this is not the official video for the song (going by the press release again here), but one is forthcoming and we will undoubtedly post that here too, because (I guess) we heart perverts. So watch this, sickos, and enjoy it if you can. I personally find the juxtaposition of a teenage girl desperately trying to appear sluttish and a gang of burly dudes desperately trying to appear not desperate as they pound out boilerplate grunge riffs (behind a teenage girl desperately trying to appear sluttish) absolutely HILARIOUS. (Pay attention, especially, to the one dude’s comically atrocious soul patch. 1995 called, dude: the alternative coffehouse misses you!) Check it:

(Sometimes, a record comes along that unites two [or more] of the Assault.it staffers in such critical fervor that a standard single-writer review can’t possibly do the subject justice. And so we employ the most powerful weapon at our disposal: THE TAG TEAM REVIEW! This episode of TAG TEAM features Tim and Oswald getting all pumped up over Godsmack’s new record, The Oracle.)

TIM I like music that’s tough. Not that the funky beats of indie rock don’t appeal to me, but when I’m rolling down the south side for a White Sox game or to hit up Reggie’s rock club for a show, I can’t be seen listening to. . .that. I don’t want to get robbed, or beat up, or laughed at. (I like Paramore too, but you won’t see me listening to that kind of stuff in my car either.) Godsmack is tough. Tough, and heavy--really heavy. That’s all I’ve ever asked for in metal bands. I don’t need you to screech or growl or melt my face with silly stringy guitar solos--just be heavy, and mostly make me look and feel tough when I listen to you.

Even if I’m just vaccuuming my place, if I have the windows down and some high school riff-raff spy me from the street level hardcore-vaccuuming to Godsmack, I don’t want them to giggle to themselves and throw rocks at my window, or laugh at me like I used to laugh at my friend’s “favorite Chicagoan” neighbor. (The one that used to ride his exercise bike indoors in full-on racer gear directly in front of the window for everyone to see--that guy wasn’t tough.) Listening to Godsmack’s new album makes you feel tough because they didn’t go down the same road that countless other soundalikes have. (See Q101′s playlist during the daytime. . .Seether, Breaking Benjamin, Sick Puppies, and on and on.)

OSWALD Godsmack are definitely tough, I’ll give them that. And after ten years of making fun of them for biting Alice In Chains so hard that Layne Staley felt it from his underground opium den (aka “grave“), I’m willing to give them even more than that: they’re actually fucking good. As I get older, the number one thing I look for in new music is variety and experimentation -- I want bands that are doing something new and unique, that are transporting me somewhere else with their sound. Godsmack don’t do any of that, though, and that’s why I’ve responded so strongly to The Oracle. After a long day of listening to bands that are trying to rape my ears with the new and the crazy, it’s actually kinda refreshing to pop open a crisp, cold Budweiser and hear a band that just cranks it up to 11 and settles into a hard-rockin’ groove. If Bob Lefsetz were to catch a Godsmack concert, he’d probably describe them as “smokin.’” And then he’d go back to his tiny apartment in Santa Monica and write a 1000-word diatribe about how they reminded him of when he used to go see Deep Purple at the Coliseum in 1974 and they’d blow his fucking face off with their stoned virtuosity.

The riffs on The Oracle just keep coming -- it’s like a freight train loaded with bareknuckle blooze guitar, headed straight for your tender cranium. The disc starts strong with “Cryin’ Like A Bitch,” a song that first reminds me of every time I ever cried like a bitch, and then forces me to drink my own salty tears at (metaphorical) fist-point. Every time I hear that song, I feel like somebody jammed a hypodermic needle filled with testosterone straight into my nuts. I actually strut for three or four days afterward, wobbling like my huge balls are throwing me off balance. And the rest of the CD has pretty much the same vibe, although it gets pretty dark at parts. And that’s when the band channels Alice In Chains the most, but I don’t hate it -- now that Jerry Cantrell has officially shit all over AIC’s legacy by getting the band back together with a new, utterly generic Staley soundalike, we need a new Alice In Chains. And Godsmack could show those guys how it’s REALLY done -- there’s no drugged-out self-loathing to be found here, just brick-hard cock-rock that swings with the grungy swagger of Led Zeppelin cutting their coke with Valium.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=0eXIOK2vOhM

The Oracle is a true marvel of craftsmanship, in my opinion -- none of these songs are catchy enough to become all-time favorites, but the disc overall is almost frighteningly consistent. I can listen to it from start to finish without paying attention and still get all the information I need to process and appreciate it. That’s kind of a back-handed compliment, but this is hard-rock, right? Everything should be communicated directly to my face like the backhand of Allah. If you do pay attention, there’s a notable lack of lyrical insight present, but the principle themes are communicated semi-powerfully by a witchy Massachusetts vibe that makes me feel like Nathaniel Hawthorne came back from the dead as a badass zombie and started writing songs about voodoo and whiskey. Obviously that can’t be a bad thing, right?

TIM If there’s one song that stands out on this album to me it’s probably the caboose track, “The Oracle.” It vaguely reminds me of the track we used to loop at a haunted house I worked at called Voodoo--you could play that song all night long and not get sick of it and still feel creepy as fuck following teenagers around in full facepaint and a scary costume. “The Oracle” differs in that, if you were racing your car around suburban midwestern towns, the only way you’d slow down would be if a rival high school’s quarterback cut you off in his piece-of-shit Ford Mustang.

Without the 2cc injection of testosterone sauce squirted right into your sack by the last two minutes of non-stop guitar riffs, you’d probably just mosey your way down the road to your girlfriend’s house (where you’d cry [like a bitch] to her about how much you hate jocks. Thankfully us skinny twerps have tough soundtracks that at least make us sound tough. No doubt half of the songs on The Oracle will be featured in this year’s Vin Diesel or Rob Zombie movie. Although, they’re hard to tell apart besides “The Oracle.” This is definitely one of those albums you can listen to from start to finish on shuffle, over and over again, without discerning between whether or not you have made it through the entire disc yet.

TAG-TEAM GRADE: A-

A lot of people got excited when Led Zeppelin (kinda) reformed last year to play a benefit show. I didn’t. There’s nothing to be gained from a full Zep reunion – their catalog is almost flawless, and their legacy speaks for itself. Them Crooked Vultures, on the other hand, is a much more enticing proposition. Dave Grohl, the closest our generation has to a Bonham, teams up with super-charismatic Queens of the Stone Age frontman Josh Hamme and Zeppelin’s own secret weapon, John Paul Jones: this isn’t a supergroup, it’s a dream team.

Of course there’s always the possibility of this turning into some newfangled version of Damn Yankees (see: Audioslave), but I’m happy to report that Them Crooked Vultures’ self-titled debut is an awesome and essential slab of prime swamp rock. The reliably magnetic Homme has pulled Grohl and Jones deep into his scuzzy orbit; the record could easily pass for a new QOTSA disc, except it’s head-and-shoulders above everything those guys have done since Rated R. The twist is provided by Jones, who supplies his usual variety of textures and tones and lends the album a dynamic variety that makes it, even at a somewhat mellow-harshing seventy minutes, compulsively listenable throughout.

The basic format here is established right away: opener “Nobody Loves Me & Neither Do I” showcases everything that makes this band special: Grohl’s thundering fills, Jones’s background flourishes, Homme’s clever double entendres (“Don’t hold it against me / Unless it gets hard”). And the album steamrolls forward from there; most of the tracks settle in for five or six minutes, building atmosphere with circular, repetitive riffs and hypnotic rhythms. You probably won’t find a better record to simply get high and zone out to this year, but there’s some straight fun on offer too. “Bandoliers” and “Elephants” both take lumbering, Page-y riffs and slow them down to a crawl before exploding into righteous fury and then settling back down again; “New Fang” and “Mind Eraser, No Chaser” are pure punk blasts with delightfully sweet chorus melodies.

If you’re looking for a shot of Zep, “Scumbag Blues” would fit nicely on the first half of Presence, and “Reptiles” sounds like a sequel to “Trampled Under Foot.” Foo Fighters fans might be disappointed – Grohl doesn’t get any mic time – but people who still like getting blitzed and playing In Utero at full volume can really rejoice. Dude still has a special gift for running his shit and making it look easy; he drives every song here, probably with a grin on his face. And Homme is in especially fine form, too – his playing is creative and varied, with slinky, seductive lines giving way to master-blaster power chords giving way to masterful solos giving way to psychedelic freak-outs. Them Crooked Vultures always feel one step away from the edge – there’s just so damn much of it. But these guys earn the run time, building atmosphere and then blowing holes through it.

You already know if this is your cup of tea; all three personalities here are well-defined brands at this point, and the combustion that results when they’re in the same room should come as no surprise. The only real shocker here is how damn good these songs are. None of the thirteen tracks sound like leftovers, and spontaneity and song-craft carry equal weight. The musical touchstones are obvious, but here’s a visual: think about the astral ballet near the beginning of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001, with the massive spaceships gliding around, huge but still dwarfed by cold, dark space. Listening to this record, you start to get an idea of how those astronauts inside feel.