Hard rock thrives on excess. The larger the stadium, the bigger the hair, the more outrageous the offstage antics, the longer the extension of the reunion tour, the louder the guitars, the more flames that shoot out of Gene Simmons’ ass, the better. Even AC/DC, bare-boned and minimal compared to most of their rockin’ brethren, have a singer with a voice so freakishly unreal and guttural that it’s probably painful just in conversation. Like their antecedents, swagger, brash lyrics and big riffs course through The Faceless Werewolves’ latest mouthful of an album: Pardon Me, Are Those Your Claws on My Back? more ›