Winger, Winger

By Christian Lipski

I could listen to “Seventeen” a million times, and each time it will take me back to my junior year in college, hanging out at my friends’ houses and watching MTV or The Box. Like all good glam metal, Winger is carefree and lightweight, and makes me believe (if only for three minutes) that the only important things are partying and girls. And at the time, those things were relatively important to me.

First of all, his name is Kip Winger. That makes me love the album. The songs remind me of a kind of proto-Firehouse—they’re slickly produced and simple in scope with lots of posturing and screaming. There are a lot more keyboards than you’d normally find on a metal record, but hey, if you want to get the ladies to listen, you’ve got to be sensitive. And you spell “sensitive” D-X-7. For the fellows, though, the guitars are pretty awesome—Reb Beach shreds enough to keep Winger from being considered a ballad album.

My other favorite track (besides the obvious “Seventeen” and “Madalaine”) is “Headed For A Heartbreak,” because it gets, honestly, a little jazzy. Minor chords and an extended solo, all in a cooled, dreamy swirl. Plus Kip indicates in the lyrics that he will be waiting to “ramble on,” which is something we can all identify with, whether we are a handsome, permanently-stubbled version of Bobby Wheeler or not.

I miss those late summer afternoons in Berkeley, smoking and watching videos while the cool breeze of commercial metal washed over us. You always knew what you were getting into, and if that was all right with you, it was certainly all right with Winger.