God bless the Iron Man. Gleefully shucking metal’s current fascination with odious machismo, the Oz serves up the usual mix of depth-charge riffage, big ’80s-style power balladry, facile social commentary (”Junkie” is a hoot), and artful screeching from Marshall stacks and his own well-worn trachea. It’s all as predictable and reliable as Big Ben, but no less fun for being so.
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