Leif Garrett
Same Goes For You (Scotti Bros. 16008)

First, I'll imagine Devon Sawa reviewing this album:

"I was honored when The Loud Bassoon Record Guide approached me about reviewing one of my favorite albums by the master. It's all I can do to keep myself from weeping tears of religious gratitude for the doors Leif Garrett has opened for me, and for dreamboats everywhere.

Back in the day, Leif's tough attitude told critics that he was much more than just a pretty face, and with rockin' cuts like "Give In," he proved that America should have just as much fear for the sexual threat of a hot and popular teen boy as they ever did for the black man during slavery time.

The music might not be real current, but the message is loud and clear. "It's the little things you do/Things your mama never knew/It's the little things you are/Friday night inside my car." Damn right, that's the fruit of teen stardom, baby! Kickin'! Who wouldn't want to give it up for the L-man, or for me, for that matter … damn, I almost got in Christina Ricci's panties, G!

Throw in updated versions of "Singin' in the Rain," "Kicks," and "If I Were a Carpenter," and you know that this album is da bomb! Damn, I'm gonna make my own album, and it'll have real street versions of dope cuts like "Twist and Shout" and "Over the Rainbow!" I give this the highest rating you all give, as a shout-out to the old school!"

Okay, now that that's out of my system … Same Goes For You is, as you might expect, utter shit, but as with all of Leif Garrett's albums, strangely fascinating. The fact that he is so obviously untalented and that the music is such crap (even for its era) adds layers of enjoyment to an album that otherwise would not deserve the wear on your needle it takes to play it.

I'm sure there's no sense of hierarchy or history among teen idols, but I do like the idea of a teen star listening to this shitty Rick Springfield-meets-Kiss bullshit and responding to the beauty of being famous for no good reason. It's a good thing they don't make albums like this anymore (with the exception of, say, Edward Furlong), because I'm damn certain no one needs to hear Haley Joel Osment "getting down."

This album is sheer misery, and yet oddly compelling, much like a scab on your neck.

Review by Haltertop Jones