Chinese Democracy - Disappointment is the only possible outcome

By Joe Shooman

There's a moment in the introduction to the title track of Chinese Democracy that is genuinely thrilling: after the seagull-squawking and deep bass rumble, beyond the distant horns and half-heard chatter, following those intense, devil-boot drums. It is the moment when the guitar riff enters, briefly, blackly blasts, and holds a moment. It is the sound of a decision: whether to hurtle over the precipice, or whether to remain there, wind rushing all around, gazing into the future. For in that moment, all things are possible. And it is wonderful. In that pause, it's clear that after years of expectation and build-up, all the false promises and missed deadlines really are to be finally realised. In that pause between crunchy guitar riffs, whilst the engine is kicking into gear, the power must surely be released and that perhaps, just perhaps, this really will be the magnificent album-to-end-all-albums that Axl believed he was making. And, in truth, in that moment, it really is. The world at that moment pauses, collectively breathes in, and awaits what is next to come.

Because what's inevitable is that there is only a descent, that gravity will take over, that the fall is imminent. That disappointment is the only possible outcome.

It's unfortunate that the profile of this album's genesis and troubled gestation will never allow it to stand alone as a decent, but not great, piece of work. But it's also inevitable. Because it's an album of an unchecked ego set loose with not enough ideas and far too much money. It's an album where an excellently-devised, magnificently-overblown song like “There Was A Time” is placed next to the oddly dated-sounding “If the World”, which is like a Seal outtake, despite the fact that there is a point during which the guitars sound like they're actually playing through amps that are on fire. It's an album where the intros are, without exception, better than the songs that they precede. Where something like “Scraped” – a more than acceptable rocker – is utterly spoiled, smothered by layer after layer of guitars, synths, vocal tracks, samples and kitchen sinks. (Bet it sounds amazing through those hyper-clear studio speakers, though. Maybe that's where we're going wrong: we should all head down to listen to the master multitrack in the control room of whichever high-end facility is closest to us. The video can be the Tools window, reflected in our sunglasses.)

Elsewhere, the horrible “Madagascar”, redolent and terrible with crass MLK samples, starts with Beatles-soft brass and ends in a mess of confused emotions before “I.R.S.” comes on with the kind of timeless power-balladry that was always an important element of Axl's approach, but shorn of the counterbalance of an equally-strong personality its massive chords and squealing, squalling sentiments sound bloated rather than epic. “This I Love” – dodgy doubled vocals, odd drop-ins and all – is more of the latter than the former, and is wonderfully, perfectly, vintage Axl Rose as a result. What an album-closer it is. Which makes it all a little odd when the ghastly “Prostitute” pops up, bolted onto the end of an LP of self-reference and self-pastiche. It doesn't work.

What Axl gained by putting out this album is debatable. Perhaps his intent was to get people talking about him: if so, there's surely cheaper and less painful ways to do it than by spending a decade and a half on something that does nothing for his own name and something that will never be accepted by even the most rabid fan as a Guns N' Roses album anyway. Velvet Revolver have far more of a moral claim in that regard. But the question remains: why let it out now, after so many promises, confusions, non-appearances and LP-less years in the passing? It makes very little sense because all it was ever going to be was a disappointing end to an intriguing tale.

Surely it would have been better, more satisfying, greater and even more noble to take a step toward the edge of that cliff, breathe in, and enjoy the brink of the moment of release? But not to jump. Not to give in. To retain the mystery, to allow the possibilities and the dreams and the beliefs their secret, whispered, leaked life? Such moments are always the most thrilling: the split-second before the kiss is the spiciest of them all. He could have kept this canned and moved onto something else with a proper band, touring, jamming, recording and releasing within a year. In years to come, Chinese Democracy would then have been legendary, talked of in hushed tones as one man's utterly decadent but compellingly unattainable, fantastical, flawed-but-magnificent life's work. The Great Lost Album, millions of dollars in the making, millions of hours in the tweaking and yet kept away from the world for reasons nobody could have really ever guessed. It would have, and it has, been magnificent. Shattered forever, now.

You should have never let us hear it, Axl: you could have become a god.

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