Thing is, I’ve never been one to hem-‘n’-haw about derivative theory; we’ve all got to start somewhere, correct? And, furthermore, I’m standing firm on the power of quantity: two AC/DCs is better than one, yet, the Tatt ain’t AC/DC; they’re more like a young Rod Stewart folded into a mixture equal parts Mott the Hoople and Chuck Berry. Sure, that’s where the AC/DC stuff comes from; yes, Angus and the Tatt’s Pete Wells genuflect to the ooze primordial’s numero uno god of the guitar, C. Berry. And when invoking the nomen of the heavenly father, it’s imperative to note that he was nothing more that a cross-swatch of Waters, Muddy and THE Great Balls of Fire Lewis; two fists in the shit & scrawling out long, linear lines of crunchy, cabeza undulant Rock-‘n’-Roll. So, when we plate this platter, we hear nothing so much “new;” it’s more like an aural archeology – and I’ve got zilch prob with this, with so much faux histrionic life’s-a-tough-row-to-hoe affectation filling up the general locus like piles of Western Spaghetti cramming their celluloid claws into every flat screen this side of Borneo ca. 1970s. You won’t have a problem with it either, with sonic anthems, “Tramp,” or “Nice Boys,” or “Rock-’n’-Roll Outlaw” rumbling through your auditory canals like nature’s white waters replaced with billions of gallons of Black Label beer. “Nice Boys: They Don’t Play Rock-‘n’-Roll.” Indeed they don’t.