This sophomore album from one of Vancouver’s rudest of booze bands invites the many clichés of rock ‘n’ roll: loud, liquored, ballsy, irreverent, thundering and clearly only here for a good time. Thunderballs is a decent approximation of the all-out aural abuse of the Belushis’ live show, but like most booze-rock records, it lacks a certain luster come sobriety and the light of day. Despite singer XXX’s indisputable ability to wail like Rob Tyner, somehow “city’s got its finger in your ass” feels different from within the comforts of home than it does when being sprayed with sweat at a bar, all the while having your butt cheeks unceremoniously groped from behind. That said, live or on tape, the Belushis deliver with cocky anthems, and enough guitar wanking to please the most jaded of rock snobs. I’d argue this band is best listened to when horny, sweaty, and drenched in cheap bourbon. Wherever that might be. Then again, the Belushis also like to make a point of reminding you that they don’t really give a crap what you think of them, and according to one of their groovier tracks “We’re Not the Cool Kids,” apparently they “don’t give a fuck about your MySpace” either. Which is funny, since they added me anyway.