Album Review: Chickenfoot

Joe Satriani lives.

On the self-titled debut album Chickenfoot, Satch sounds better and looser than he has in years – it’s easily his best work since 1993’s Time Machine. With his bald pate, shades encased face, and the sleek and shiny Ibanez hovering effortless in his hands, Satriani has morphed into the spitting image of the Marvel Comics character who graced the cover of 1987’s Surfing with the Alien. Unlike the Silver Surfer, however (always a rather glum chap in the comics) Satriani seems to be having a blast.

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And why not? He’s in a great band who’ve just made a great record, a rollicking stomp of riff and chorus. To the surprise of many, instrumental virtuoso Satriani flourishes as co-writer and supporting player, keeping his trademark pyrotechnics on slow burn, never overpowering vocalist Sammy Hagar during the verses, and all while adding perfect surface sheen to the tight grooves laid down by bassist Michael Anthony (formerly of Van Halen) and drummer Chad Smith (Red Hot Chili Peppers). When it’s time for him to solo, however, Satch lets the fire loose in some surprising ways – check out the Faith No More like mid-section of the otherwise classic stadium fare “Oh Yeah.”

And Satriani isn’t the only one who turns in a great performance. Sammy Hagar hasn’t sounded this good, this free, since he grabbed the lapels of that state trooper and politely declined to go 55. Michael Anthony’s bass and backing vocals remind us what a crucial element he was to the Van Halen sound, while Chad Smith lays down a slippery but never sloppy beat down on the skins. Producer Andy Johns (Led Zeppelin, Rolling Stones) lets the songs breathe while simultaneously giving them a smooth polish – a delicate balancing act that few producers know how to manage effectively.

Among the best tracks: “Sexy Little Thing” is a giddy joy that will repeat on your iPod for days. “Down the Drain” is slow and heavy, perfect for driving at night through a rainstorm; “My Kinda Girl” picks up the pace with a sing-along chorus tailor made for a sunny day’s drive (top down, of course). “Future in the Past” the closing track, starts slow and lilting, then suddenly takes a jarringly funky turn before morphing again into a vaguely Eastern sounding, tom tom driven jam, the depths from which bursts a blistering Satriani solo. Trust me – it works.

Chickenfoot has no right to sound this good. The line up on paper smacks of aging rockers desperate to recapture some glory by forming a painfully self-conscious “super group.” And then there’s the name, possibly the most cringe inducing in the history of rock.

But, aging or not, as long as they rock like this, these guys can call themselves Chickenshit for all I care.

Matt Patterson is a candidate for dictator and the 2005 national scrap booking champion. His email is mpatterson.column@gmail.com.