Motörhead are the gods of meth-fuelled roadhouse nastiness, hands down. Neophyte crank rockers like Speedealer, Bionic, Nashville Pussy and C'mon may all aspire to the title, but as long as Motörhead spew the sort of venom they do on Inferno, all usurpers will forever be biting at the air. Lemmy's voice is every bit as sore as the sentiments he's mouthing, and there's roguish poetry in his words. The power trio still has the primal viciousness we've come to expect, and the sound of Steve Vai's lacerating guitar on a few tracks shows us that Motörhead can still mount a surprise attack. That said, Inferno isn't astounding. Solid, yes. Unrelenting, sure. But not a shocker. They know it and play to their limitations, offering an album only 12 tracks deep in uncomplicated virility.