Rock music, by its very nature, is cyclical. Since the days of Perry Como, people have been actively attempting to not only find something better, but to do so while smashing to pieces the conventions of those that came before them. Certainly we would have never seen Elvis Presley had it not been for Ike Turner and Little Richard, nor the Beatles without Elvis Presley. The Beach Boys would never have created Pet Sounds without the springboard that was Sgt. Pepper’s and punk rock simply couldn’t have happened without The Velvet Underground.

There is a distinct butterfly effect in the world of rock music, one that echoes for better or for worse for decades to come. Recently we are forced to look back upon the days of Nirvana, and the rest of the “Grunge” scene, with a parallel sense of admiration and disdain, as “alternative” music has evolved into utter trash like Nickelback and My Chemical Romance. Bands like Pearl Jam and Rage Against the Machine have either failed to impress or completely disbanded, as “alternative” veterans like Radiohead and Green Day continue to make shockingly brilliant records, despite the incomprehensibility of ever having been categorized in the same genre to begin with.

However, there is one band that deserves immeasurable credit for giving birth to the world of music as we know it. A band that may not have shattered your perception or reinvented the wheel, but one that nonetheless laid the groundwork for a musical revolution… Guns. N. Roses.

Just in case I need to spell it out, Nirvana would never have happened had it not been for Guns N’ Roses. I don’t even like Nirvana, but I realize that ignoring their contribution to music would immediately result in an attack from the Emo-Kid SWAT Team… which I think is primarily a well-armed, highly trained organization of sad teenagers with swoopy hairdos and chain wallets.

I can certainly understand your immediate recoil. G N’ Effin’ R aren’t exactly remembered as pioneers in their field, but rather as a collection of screeching yahoos in leather pants and top hats. However, taking a look at what the band accomplished, one that delves slightly deeper than the cosmetic aspects of arena rock, shows a collection of inventive, exciting musicians toying with the personification of “cock-rock” in an era so desperately in need of such.

Need proof?

Well, the two biggest singles in America in August of 1987 (the month and year in which we, as a people, received Appetite For Destruction) were Whitney Houston’s “Didn’t We Almost Have It All” and Madonna’s “Who’s That Girl.” Now, I hate to speak ill of the coke-addicted, kaballah fanatics of yesteryear, but quite frankly, neither of these particular jams paved the way for… well… anything. Perhaps we can thank them for the Britney Spears catalogue and the lesser works of Christina Aguilera, but essentially they were as useless as mittens on a wolverine.

So, we were given a sterling example of the face of rock to come. One that simultaneously channeled the spirits of Led Zeppelin, The Stooges and eventually Jim Steinman while supporting the leather-clad, cock-sure attitude of Mick Jagger. A band that seemed to triumphantly throttle you while assuring you that what they were doing was “all for the best.” My friend Zach used to toss about a remarkable parable that may explain rock and roll in a way that I can’t. Please, indulge me…

“Y’see, Paul McCartney is that guy that shows up at your house with flowers and candy. He asks your daughter out, brings her home on time and with her virtue in tact. Mick Jagger shows up a little late, some whiskey on his breath and shags her in the back seat of his car. Eric Burdon sneaks her out through her bedroom window, takes her to a dirty basement and violates her under a stark-naked lightbulb… you just hope you see her again.”

That’s most certainly true, but by that logic, Guns N’ Roses would stumble upon Eric Burdon’s leftovers, gang-rape them and then write an epic masterpiece about the entire ordeal. Seriously, these guys made parents uncomfortable.

But, all orchestration and pseudo-sexual assault aside, the nastiest band in the world has come back. Granted, it’s the nastiest band in the world, minus the entire band… but hell, at least they’re back.

There were three major issues that I had with the return of Guns N’ Roses. As a fan, they were remarkably important, and they go this way, the ol’ 1-2-3:

1. Will the songs suffer without Izzy?
2. Is Axl’s voice up to snuff
3. Can anyone ever sound like Slash?

The answers are as follows:

1. Yes
2. Yes
3. Yes

Unfortunately, I can’t do that.

Chinese Democracy is a mediocre response to an age-old question. Unfortunately, the age-old question isn’t some sort of hyper-literate, Chaucer-esque figuration, but rather a literal age-old question… the answer to the now age-old question of whatever the hell happened to Guns N’ Roses. The album is thoroughly lackluster, exhibiting moments of true greatness and then submerging them in a cesspool of nu-metal hooks and horrendous drum-machine loops.

To say that it’s terrible is wrong. Compared to recent outputs by “hard rock” outfits, Chinese Democracy is a masterpiece. However, for a band like Guns N’ Roses, operating with nearly a decade of studio time, Chinese Democracy not only falls short but dances very carefully on the line of embarrassing.

The tracks sound eerily similar to outtakes from the Use Your Illustion albums, withou the overwhelming testosterone that managed to lie dormant underneath the epic orchestral grandeur. The record isn't without snarl, as you can feel the nearly palpable raw anger that made past G N' R efforts so specatcular, unfortunately those moments come few and far between as we are treated to Axl's pissy mid-life crisis.

I saw the band recently in Huntington, WV. The crowd erupted into absolute bedlam during the modern renditions of the classic G N’ R songs, but sat quietly as the new material poured through the amphitheater. Perhaps that says it all. Modern day Guns N’ Roses has become nothing more than a glorified cover band, arguably the greatest one on Earth. However, Guns N’ Roses now sucks in the same way that Velvet Revolver sucks.

If Andre and Big Boi have taught us anything, let it be that “the whole is greater than the sum of its individual parts.”