Monster Magnet

Not since Blue Oyster Cult's heyday has heavy rock seen a combination of brains, brawn, and humor quite like that orchestrated by Monster Magnet's Dave Wyndorf. In a style of music that indulges sex- and drug-fueled power fantasies, Wyndorf brings an ability to laugh at himself while still whipping the music into a rabid-dog froth. He creates the soundtrack for a world in which comic-book antiheroes, Hell's Angels, and dominatrixes party in shag-carpeted boogie vans that stink of stale bong water.

Each of Monster Magnet's albums wallows in excess; after a couple of cassette-only releases, Spine of God betrays a heavy debt to Hawkwind's sludge-encrusted psychedelia, while 25 . . . Tab goes off the deep end of acid-drone. Superjudge finds the band trying to rein in its indulgences and softening slightly as a result, but Dopes to Infinity injects garage rock and welcome doses of self-deprecating humor ("Ego, the Living Planet").

Powertrip is the most concise and physical Monster Magnet album yet; the dawn-of-metal riffs and stadium-worthy choruses are balanced by wicked satire and flashbacks to the sound of Detroit circa early Alice Cooper and MC5. God Says No has the bombast and testosterone of a codpiece-and-leather-pants ensemble. But Wyndorf's leer always comes with a wink; when he promises, "You'll swim in the sweat of a million orgies," he trumps Kid Rock at his game. God Says No is about overkill; the false ending of "Melt" lingers for five interminable seconds before revving back into a torrid guitar solo. In contrast to the relatively concise muscle car that Wyndorf fashioned on Powertrip, God Says No luxuriates in a decadent psych-rock whirlpool, improbably bridging the chasm between the Music Machine and Nine Inch Nails (NIN coproducer Alan Moulder was enlisted to mix). Monolithic Baby! finds them off a major label, but up to the usual high jinks. (GREG KOT)

From 2004's The New Rolling Stone Album Guide