So tastefully appointed, so artfully/craftily arranged, so very adult-sounding, that I expect most will have cleared the room by the end of this sentence.
With guitar string-buzzy vocals like a tongue out-of-focus, McCarron edges hair metal with falsetto, restrained ballast yells, a ballad, and elemental guitars.
15 minutes and a receding hairline later, the rhinestone-studded, black leather jacketed, neck-cracking, contorted, chain-smoking Bad Boy from Brooklyn is back.