I’m probably too biased to be writing this review. It’s hard to be critical of your friends’ work and that’s what MF Ruckus are, my friends. I’ve known the majority of the band’s members, both past and present, for years as we’ve partied on the same stages and in the same dirty green rooms of Denver and, every time I listen to or have the opportunity to watch this magnificent collection of musicians, I can’t help but smile like I’m privy to some inside joke. Y’see, MF Ruckus (or The Motherfuckin’ Ruckus, when your mother isn’t around) has developed into one of the most over-the-top bands in town, reaching back to what they consider rock ‘n roll’s holy days when bands mixed equal parts sex and drugs with their riffage. Most of these guys cut their teeth playing punk rock but they’ve developed into one of the tightest hard rock bands around. I’ve previously described them as some underground hybrid of Thin Lizzy, The Dwarves and Valient Thor with their latest album, Thieves of Thunder, and, as I give it another listen, I’m not sure that description does them justice. Sure, one could find elements of all those bands: the slick guitar leads and driving rhythms from Thin Lizzy, the tongue-in-cheek raunchiness of The Dwarves and the pounding, jean-vest swagger of Valient Thor. However, MF Ruckus have developed into a beast all their own, fine-tuning a blend of 70s/80s rock and metal with the occasional twang of Southern rock. The opening title track launches out the gate at an epic gallop and introduces the album with big guitars and even bigger vocals. “Talk All Day (Don’t Say Shit)” is like a sleazy night on the Sunset Strip. “Hall of Champions” is filled with a slight Bruce Dickinson falsetto and vibrato and a groove that will make you headbang with confidence. There’s no denying the infectiousness of “Gasoline (For My Party Machine)” as it jumps from spit-flying, lightning fast licks and lyrics into a chorus that should be on every jukebox in America for a proper night of revelry. It’s like Ted Nugent showed up, minus the craziness and racism, and, with the mighty power of rock, dropped all the panties in the room and gave every guy a raging hard-on, leaving them in a pool of their own juices and begging for more. Sorry for all the hyperbole, but MF Ruckus is pretty much drenched in it. To musicians who take themselves too seriously, the band can come off as equal parts cheese and sleaze: a Spinal Tap for the modern age that seems to magnify rock-and-roll stereotypes in a grasp for nostalgia. However, that couldn’t be further from the truth. MF Ruckus are here to play guitar parts that your band can’t play, make bold, declarative, debaucherous statements that your meek singer would never dare utter and to have more fun than every shoegazer, arm-crosser and naysayer in the room
