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If the best-selling, semiautobiographical Motley Crue memoir The Dirt is to be believed, then Nikki Sixx was born to rock. After all, what else is a man who once called room service from a telephone halfway inserted into a woman supposed to do with his life? Clearly, he can only serve one social function, and the rest of us have no choice but to prostrate ourselves at the foot of his hedonistic majesty.

But like any deal with the devil, the sacred ability to rock is only temporary. With the notable exceptions of rock 'n' roll Yoda Keith Richards and anyone who died in a mysterious crash (see: Cliff Burton, Ronnie Van Zant and--to a lesser extent--Razzle Dingley), all rock stars eventually wither like Superman in a Kryptonite hot tub--a fact that can be observed in David Lee Roth's combover, Gene Simmons' KISS-related product line and Vince Neil's chunky thighs.

So if anyone was really looking out for Sixx's best interests, that person would have advised him not to sign on with the new Tracii Guns' "super"-group Brides of Destruction. The whole thing would have been as easy as sitting Sixx down and saying, "Look, Nikki, I know you get a little stir crazy having to kick around the mansion with Donna all day long, but your best days are past. I mean, seriously, why would you want to taint the legacy of the Crue debut Too Fast for Love? Anything that you could record now wouldn't stand a chance against the cock-rock swagger of `Live Wire' or the heartbreaking balladry of `Too Fast for Love.' Please. I beg you. Don't go out like Sammy Hagar."

Apparently, though, no one had the decency to give Sixx the bad news, and as a result, he's mortalized on Here Come the Brides, an album whose only distinction is its complete lack of coherence. Punk ("I Don't Care"), power metal ("Brace Yourself"), nu-rock ("Natural Born Killers") and grunge ("I Got a Gun")--the Brides' debut dabbles in everything and gets almost nothing right.

And that may be the biggest problem with middle-aged rockers. They probably still have the chops, but they just can't summon the single-minded focus required to make a really kick-ass rock album. In order to do that, you have to be young and dumb. You have to be the kind of guy who would slice open your own arm with a switchblade and then blame it on your mother to get her thrown in jail. You've got to be Nikki Sixx in 1981.--Newt Briggs