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Rating: For the second time, I, a convinced garage dweller, self-proclaimed punkette, snobby new waver, snuck into the Gods of Metal.
Readers of DeBaser already know about last year, the date with Guns n' Roses, Alice in Chains, Korn, and Deftones. What struck me was the audience, as well as the bands, or rather, the attitude of certain bands; so I returned, to learn a bit about how to play and how to do a concert. Due to rain-mess-tangles, I only arrived at the end of the Scorpions' performance, who nonetheless seemed very honest and truly loved by the audience.
The audience: they would deserve entire pages. A wonderful and priceless audience, true glam metallers with tight leopard print pants, studs, and bandanas in their (perfectly teased) hair, not to mention the girls with high heels and fishnets, all rigorously soaked in mud, full of beer and mascara on their eyes. In short, fabulous.
As I was watching this colorful crowd (certainly better than the indie kids all wearing the same striped t-shirt and glasses!), I realized it was time for Velvet Revolver, a monstrum formed by the three former Guns n' Roses members Slash, Duff, and Matt Sorum and the resurrected Stone Temple Pilots singer Scott Weyland. The three former GnR had actually declared in an interview that the path they wanted to pursue for their band was that of the hard rock street of Guns' debut, "Appetite for Destruction," but that Axl's megalomania and pop appeal had forced them to shelve certain musical ideas. That it was their path, listening to some tracks from "The Spaghetti Incident," there's almost no doubt, and these Velvet Revolver were born almost to make up for the past. As for Scott Weyland, or rather his flatline, since the guy is rather battered, he has always been a great singer, even if infinitely less talented than the late Layne Staley, and penalized by songs not always fabulous. So, in theory, this lab-formed band should be a blast, and indeed there's the right vibe, the right energy, a decent songwriting, good ideas, the usual masculine display of guitar solos and powerful riffs, but something's missing. The heart is missing, that's what's missing. The songs slipped away one after another, and, beyond the fun, they left nothing. Scott Weyland has the voice, but on stage, he isn't as incisive and convincing as he should be, almost playing the prima donna, a sort of Mick Jagger ante litteram, and at times he's irritating. The only significant moments were the covers of some nice Stone Temple Pilots tracks ("Sex Type Thing"), and at the end a cover of "Psycho Killer" by Talking Heads, which actually didn't fit at all. In short, a bit disappointing.
At this point, the dinosaurs, the Motley Crüe, should take the stage, a band that, I confess, I know only for their folkloric side, that is, their incredible hairdos, their (in)sane habits regarding alcohol, drugs, and fast cars, their more than flaunted machismo, and, well, Tommy Lee's endowment! So basically, I told myself, let's watch this garish phenomenon, a couple of tracks and I'm leaving. And instead, what a wallop, what a lesson, I had to keep quiet. First of all, the stage presence of these I believe are now fifty-year-olds is incredible. Their charge, their inexhaustible energy, the way they manage to drag the audience, the way they manage to make everyone dance in a downpour. But let's go in order: first enters Tommy Lee. It was cold, but Tommy Lee, a half-Greek hulk covered in tattoos, was shirtless. He sits behind the drums and starts hitting them so hard that I almost can't believe it: and he will do so throughout the show, confirming what many had already told me, that this man is a war machine, a grinder. I add that during the concert, they shot fireworks to the rhythm of the bass drum.
Then comes Nikki Sixx. Seeing Nikki Sixx shocked me. Nikki Sixx's silhouette shocked me. I realized the day after why: he is a resurrected! The legend tells that Nikki Sixx at one point in his life overdosed, and when the ambulance arrived to rescue him, he had already died. But a zealous doctor, (a fan of his?) decided it couldn't end like this and gave him not one, but two adrenaline injections in the heart, and at this point, Nikki Sixx resurrected. And he even wrote a song about his "extra" life experience. Nikki Sixx's presence is inexplicable, immense, divine. And then at the vocals, roaring and more rock than ever, is Vince Nails, truly exceptional at inciting the audience, at exalting the people. Season this show with an hour and a half of granite hard rock played at crazy volumes, with fireworks and every kitsch thing you can think of, some strippers that can't be missed (as well as the thirty wild groupies glimpsed backstage), and you have the picture of a perfect show. Which reaches its peak with the performance of their most famous anthem "Girls Girls Girls" sung at the top of their lungs by everyone and an incredible and unexpected version of "Anarchy" in the encores.
Really, a wallop.
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