With Electric, The Cult reveal their true allegiance: none other than AC/DC. 11 times that same song. The only thing The Cult have over their idols is that their lyrics are written about things other than balls and beers, and Ian Astbury sounds like a dork trying to look cool, which is better than sounding like a moron. Also, the riffs are less indebted to blues rock. The production on Electric is terrible, too. Is Ian Astbury even singing into the microphone? Is there really bass on this album, or was this “Jamie Stewart” in the album’s credits a made-up person? I guess that’s what happens when you get a guy with the last name “Drakoulias” to assist with producing your album, because he’s clearly a supervillain. Actually, it likely has more to do with Rick Rubin being on production. Despite being the worst popular producer of all time, this guy was still getting work. How can you have a rock album with no dynamics? I mean, I guess you can. But it would be boring; like Electric.

And that’s really everything that can be said about Electric. Love was a watershed album that pioneered the next generation of rock’s sound five years before it happened. They say there’s such a thing as accidental genius, and it must’ve been the case for The Cult, as they clearly weren’t aware of what they had before trading it all in for an album with no personality—or rather, the personality of other bands. Electric sucks, and after following such a great album, it should certainly come as a shock. Ha ha. Fuck.