Rock N Roll Gutter

This week in The Gutter, we're celebrating the 50th anniversary of the record many musicians consider Aerosmith's finest hour. From the swagger of "Back in the Saddle" and the filthy groove of "Last Child" to the crushing heaviness of "Nobody's Fault," Rocks captured the Boston bad boys at the absolute peak of their powers.

Released in 1976, Aerosmith's fourth album became the record that countless future rock stars wore out on their turntables. Slash loved it. Nikki Sixx worshipped it. James Hetfield studied it. And generations of musicians learned that rock and roll sounded a whole lot better when it was a little dangerous.

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This week in the gutter, we’re diving headfirst into the gloriously underrated world of late-’80s Sunset Strip rock with Shark Island and The Scream. Two bands. Endless talent. Horrible timing.

During the dying days of the Strip, Shark Island unleashed Richard Black’s legendary, hypnotic stage swagger—the literal DNA a certain Axl Rose may have “borrowed”—alongside the razor-sharp riffs of Spencer Sercombe. From their infamous Gazzarri's residency to the release of their 1989 masterwork, Law of the Order, Shark Island wasn’t just part of the scene—they were the blueprint  

The Scream. Born from the ashes of Racer X and powered by the soulful roar of John Corabi. Their debut, Let It Scream, delivered blues-soaked, groove-heavy gutter rock. We’re breaking down the raw punch of tracks like “Man in the Moon,” the brutal bad luck that killed the band’s momentum, and how this band became the stepping stone that launched Corabi straight into the chaos of Mötley Crüe.

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This week in the Gutter, we’re chasing the beautiful wreckage left behind when one of rock ‘n’ roll’s most unpredictable gunslingers refused to call it a day. At the center of it all: Andy McCoy—songwriter, guitarist, and full-time agent of chaos—stepping out of Hanoi Rocks’ shadow and straight into two short-lived, hard-living projects that burned fast and flamed out.

First up, we dive into The Cherry Bombz—a sleazy, swaggering supergroup that looked like a million bucks and behaved like they had nothing to lose. With members pulled from European Glam Punk royalty, The Cherry Bombz became an explosion of attitude, decadence, and pure rock ‘n’ roll instinct.

Then we follow McCoy into Shooting Gallery, where the chaos turns even darker. Stripped down, and raw, this band traded Sunset Strip flash for something meaner. With a constant sense that everything could fall apart at any second, this was a band determined to self-destruct. 

Two bands and one brilliantly unstable creative force holding it all together—until he couldn’t.

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Long before Guns N' Roses took over the world, a gang out of Helsinki had already perfected the art of volume, chaos, and beautifully bad decisions. This week, we’re diving headfirst into the swagger and wreckage of Smack—the band that built a filthy little bridge between Finnish grit and L.A. glam.

Smack became the ultimate musician’s band—worshipped by the future legends, ignored by the charts, and living just reckless enough to burn through every opportunity they touched.

This is what happens when talent, timing, and trouble collide. Join us as we dig into a legacy that’s raw, ragged, and just a little bit tragic.

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 This week in the Gutter, we dive headfirst into a technicolor blur of sequins, swagger, and electric riffs with modern Glam rocker Gyasi (Pronounced Jah-See). In this episode, we explore how the Nashville-based artist revives the theatrical spirit of Bowie and T. Rex while carving a sound and vision that’s entirely his own. He’s not living in their shadow. He’s kicking the door in, platform boots first, dragging Glam rock into the present with snarling guitars, twisted hooks, and a whole lot of attitude. 

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This week in The Gutter, we get a little emotional over Love/Hate.

While the Sunset Strip was choking on Aqua Net and major-label promises, Love/Hate came in wired, wild-eyed… and just a little weird. Fronted by the feral charisma of Jizzy Pearl, they had the hooks. They had the riffs. They had the attitude. What they didn’t have was timing.

Their debut, Blackout in the Red Room, felt sharp, dangerous, and a little too real for a scene already collapsing under its own excess.

And then there was the crucifixion stunt. Outrageous. Ridiculous. Maybe even a little desperate. But subtle? Never..

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This week in The Gutter, we crank up Sweden’s sleaziest soul survivors: Diamond Dogs. Born in the early ’90s with riffs in their teeth and a full-blown addiction to the ragged glory of the Stones and ’70s glam, these guys built it the hard way — sweat-soaked clubs, piano-pounding swagger, and sticky hooks. We dig into the glam-streaked roots, the bar-band hustle, and the unkillable groove that kept them strutting long after trends crashed and burned. 

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This week in The Gutter, we’re dragging Company of Wolves back into the light — a New York band that had the songs, the swagger, the connections… and the worst timing imaginable. Right place. Right attitude. Wrong time.

Company of Wolves fused East Coast grit with radio-ready hooks, big choruses, and killer riffs. Their 1990 self-titled album is slick enough for radio, rough enough for the streets — and somehow still got ignored.

And then there’s Steve Conte — who didn’t disappear when Company of Wolves folded. He just kept working. Loud, quiet, behind the scenes, and everywhere else. From the New York Dolls in their second act to becoming Michael Monroe’s go-to songwriter, producer, and musical Swiss Army knife, Conte turned “cult-band survivor” into a long, legit career. 

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This week in The Gutter, we take on The Zeros —  the glam-leaning power pop outsiders whose album 4, 3, 2, 1  deserved to be more than a cult-status footnote. Big choruses, neon hooks, and street-level swagger. And yeah — these are the same guys who wrote the long-running Howard Stern Show theme song… and still got ignored. We’re breaking down the records, the bad timing, the purple hair, and Sammy Serious’ obsession with signing about names.

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This week in The Gutter, we dive into the chaotic mythology of Zodiac Mindwarp & The Love Reaction — one of the most unhinged, testosterone-fueled bands to ever crawl out of late-’80s Britain.

Spawned by former music journalist turned rock ‘n’ roll menace Mark “Zodiac Mindwarp” Manning, this wasn’t just a band — it was a rotating cast of misfit heathens. Built on boogie riffs, cartoonish bravado, and a complete disregard for good taste, Zodiac Mindwarp hovered somewhere between parody and prophecy. Was it satire? Was it dumb as hell? Or was it rock excess in its most honest form?

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