This music is for those whose hearts harbor the romance of night streets, for those whose veins flow with the octane fury of endless highways, and whose brains have been replaced by a massive carburetor clicking its valves... The sounds of DUSTSUCKER immediately conjure up some action movie from the distant '80s, in which a gang of saber-toothed bikers rolls down a sprawling freeway in the City of Angels, helping the protagonist chase down scumbags fleeing in a white town car. Engines roar, heavy chains clatter — a cavalcade of road knights propels the handsome prince toward the inevitable happy ending... Such is "Rock'n'Roll Sniper" in its entirety, from A to Z. The beauty of bands like DUSTSUCKER is the reassuring certainty that on the next album, the group won't offer the esteemed listener some avant-garde prog-trip-drum-and-bass madness. Most likely, it will contain ten to fifteen songs with similar titles, similar sounds, and of course, the cover will flaunt the same half-decomposed skull. This state of affairs invites grim thoughts. After all, what is today's music?... A blatant product that fits conveniently into a shopping cart during a trip to the supermarket. All these rock-n-rolls, assorted metals, reggae, and stray hip-hops — they all have their audience, and debating the "trueness" and supreme "undergroundness" of any given subspecies of musical fungus is like choosing yogurt based on considerations of ideology, the TV schedule, or the angle of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I must admit that I welcome mutants of the DUSTSUCKER variety either in moments of the blackest apathy (when the brain loops like a Buddhist mantra on some trivial nonsense), or when rage fountains out in furious waves, making oncoming individuals scatter a kilometer away. Listening to "Rock'n'Roll Sniper," you note the long hours the band spent in the studio, the sound engineer's nocturnal vigils, his tired gaze fixed on the monitor screen. All for the sake of quality — quality cubed!!! Then visions arise of crowds of frenzied fans: many already drunk, perceiving the proceedings as some mysterious pagan ritual... And if this cocktail of "Backslider," "King Size," and "The Pusher" brightens someone's gray routine, shares joy and faith in a bright future, then this "sniper" hits the right target. Doesn't it? But why then does every shot ring out and vanish into an insatiable void?... Perhaps I just can't see it. Perhaps, for all my competence, I'm simply too far away...
P.S. MOTORHEAD fans don their leather armor, hide their faces behind Gucci sun-visor shields, and march in orderly columns to storm the record stores.