It’s an unfortunate thing when a band’s novelty wears off, and Nashville Pussy has seen that day. What was once a raunchy, high-octane, Southern-fried rock band with wild, fire-breathing, girl-on-girl live shows, has unceremoniously devolved into a second-rate circus sideshow, now slinging comedy and curse words for cash, ultimately bouncing from label to label. Still dragging out their tired brand of countrified guitar rock for another round of beers, Blaine affects his best growly voice to sing remedial nursery-school rhymes about drugs, booze and sex. Is there any value in a song called “Keep On Fucking”? No. Is a tune entitled “Gonna Hitchhike Down To Cincinnati And Kick The Shit Outta Your Drunk Daddy” worth 3 minutes of anyone’s time? Probably not. Could a one-time fan be more disappointed? Not a chance. Worst of all, the final song is a ham-fisted molestation of Johnny Winter’s “Rock & Roll Hoochie Coo”. This album is uninspired, uninventive and unimpressive. A complete waste of time. Is that nasty enough?