Let me tell you what it feels like.
It's like pulling on a favourite pair of shoes, of the snug, comfortable feel that putting your feet into that well worn leather sends through your nervous system.
It's like wearing that leather jacket that you've had for so long that when you put it on it feels like a second skin - warm, familiar and like, well, coming home.
So what is it that feel this way for me? What fills me with such a deep sense of peace, of contentment, that I can't help but take a satisfyingly deep breath and smile?
Rock music. That's what does it for me. Good old fashioned loud guitars, catchy hooks, driving rhythms and sing-a-long lyrics.
Yes, I love lots of other kinds of music. I adore electronica, being a life long fan of Gary Numan, Alphaville, and other classic bands like the Human League and Fad Gadget. I love what you might term easy listening, or folk, or country, or whatever you want to call it, bands like Counting Crows, artists like Newton Faulkener, Aimee Mann, and Tori Amos. I even dig certain rap artists, like Public Enemy, Cypress Hill, and Ice T (and yes, the true 'gangstas' among you may consider this rap-lite but fuck you, I like what I like).
And I love, love, love Nine Inch Nails, but my adoration of Trent Reznor's work borders on the religious so we'll deal with this another day.
None of these bands or genres really fires my soul up like rock music does, though.
As I write this I'm listening to a band called Junkyard who play hard rockin' blues, and I'm nodding my head and my fingers are itching to run into the conservatory and pick up my bass and just jam until my fingers bleed.
And you know what, I couldn't be happier. There's something about loud guitars that just pushes all the right buttons and I wouldn't change it for the world. Not even for a million dollars (or given the current exchange rate, English pounds).
People speculate on what heaven might be like. Heaven for me would be an eternal Friday night at Nottingham's Rock City circa 1989 (but with maybe better beer).
On that note, I'm going to go and turn it up just a little bit louder, at the risk of annoying the neighbours, and for the rest of the evening bask in my own piece of heaven.
Wednesday, 23 April 2008
Monday, 21 April 2008
Time Theft Auto
A couple of days ago I was reading about an upcoming Xbox 360 game in a magazine and I realised that for the first time in years I am actually genuinely excited about a software release.
I know there was a frenzy surrounding the release of Halo 3 last year, but being as I hadn't played the first two and was barely aware of who the Master Chief even was, I didn't get caught up in all of this, though I did experience it second hand through my good friend Tav who was just about bursting at the seams at thought of getting his hands on the Master Chief again, so to speak.
This year's big event, however, has me in almost the same state of anticipation, and fearing for my social life which I'm sure will be sucked away for several weeks following the 29th April.
I am, of course, talking about the imminent release of Grand Theft Auto IV, the lastest instalment in Rockstar Games' ongoing series in which you play a bad guy (previously either mob related, or a gang-banger from the 'hood) who basically wanders around a huge virtual city being, well, bad in order to climb to the top of his particular shady food chain.
What makes the GTA series so much fun, for me and many others, is that it is just so immersive. Yes there are the missions that you have to complete in order to finish the game, but the larger appeal of the game is that just like in an major city, you can pretty much live your own life.
Want to raise cash by ferrying punters around in a cab? Fine, do it. Want to get a tattoo, or a hair cut, perhaps a wardrobe full of new clothes? No problem, Sir. Want to steal a car and drive around making insane jumps from conveniently placed ramps and mowing down scores of innocent pedestrians? Well that's all possible too!
Of course, the gaming community is well prepared for the Daily Mail, or Anne Diamond to declare that GTA is the worst thing since, well, anything else ever, and that a nation of children (who shouldn't be playing it anyway due to it having an 18 rating) will brainwashed into stealing cars, planes, trains, and ambulances and shooting, beating, and kicking people to death left, right and centre.
All pure bollocks, of course, but when did that ever stop our beloved moral guardians from trying to spoil all our fun?
All I know is that I'm going to have to make a supreme effort to ration my visits to Liberty City, otherwise it could be verrry quiet around these parts for a few weeks.......
I know there was a frenzy surrounding the release of Halo 3 last year, but being as I hadn't played the first two and was barely aware of who the Master Chief even was, I didn't get caught up in all of this, though I did experience it second hand through my good friend Tav who was just about bursting at the seams at thought of getting his hands on the Master Chief again, so to speak.
This year's big event, however, has me in almost the same state of anticipation, and fearing for my social life which I'm sure will be sucked away for several weeks following the 29th April.
I am, of course, talking about the imminent release of Grand Theft Auto IV, the lastest instalment in Rockstar Games' ongoing series in which you play a bad guy (previously either mob related, or a gang-banger from the 'hood) who basically wanders around a huge virtual city being, well, bad in order to climb to the top of his particular shady food chain.
What makes the GTA series so much fun, for me and many others, is that it is just so immersive. Yes there are the missions that you have to complete in order to finish the game, but the larger appeal of the game is that just like in an major city, you can pretty much live your own life.
Want to raise cash by ferrying punters around in a cab? Fine, do it. Want to get a tattoo, or a hair cut, perhaps a wardrobe full of new clothes? No problem, Sir. Want to steal a car and drive around making insane jumps from conveniently placed ramps and mowing down scores of innocent pedestrians? Well that's all possible too!
Of course, the gaming community is well prepared for the Daily Mail, or Anne Diamond to declare that GTA is the worst thing since, well, anything else ever, and that a nation of children (who shouldn't be playing it anyway due to it having an 18 rating) will brainwashed into stealing cars, planes, trains, and ambulances and shooting, beating, and kicking people to death left, right and centre.
All pure bollocks, of course, but when did that ever stop our beloved moral guardians from trying to spoil all our fun?
All I know is that I'm going to have to make a supreme effort to ration my visits to Liberty City, otherwise it could be verrry quiet around these parts for a few weeks.......
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
Ace Alive!
Thirty two years ago in a basement in Canada I first heard the band that was to unwittingly change my whole perception of music, and ultimately be responsible for wearing criminally tight trousers with zebra patterns all over them.
But that's a story for another day, and indeed book.
Last Friday I had the pleasure of seeing one of my guitar heroes live on stage for the fourth time, which in itself was fantastic, but given that the last three times he was plastered in makeup and a member of KISS, the band from the basement all those years ago, and this time he was headlining his own show, I was over the moon.
Ace Frehley has never been one of the world's greatest guitarists - he's certainly no Eddie Van Halen, or Steve Vai, or Jimmy page for that matter, but he's got that rare quality in that he knows his limitations, both in terms of guitar playing and singing, and plays magnificently to his strengths.
Backed by three young bucks dressed subtly, but effectively, in identical black jumpsuits, Frehley tore the London Astoria apart for ninety minutes, kicking off with Rip It Out, the opening cut from his 1978 solo album, and ending with a rousing version of Cold Gin.
Though KISS has long been dominated by the songwriting talents of Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley, whenever Ace threw one into the mix it was invariably a great one, and we got plenty of his KISS offerings as proof.
Parasite, Rocket Ride, Shock Me (complete with smoking, literally, guitar solo) and Hard Times had us old KISS fans in rapture, while Snowblind, New York Groove and a blistering Rock Soldiers did Ace's solo canon proud.
Dedicating Breakout to late KISS drummer (and co-writer) Eric Carr, and thanking Paul Stanley for writing Love Gun, which was given a supercharged workout during the encore, Ace proved himself the perfect host for an evening of rock and roll, even rescuing a dwarf from the audience and letting him watch the rest of show from stage left, telling him "We got to look after one another."
Given Ace's yo-yo relationship with alocholoism and rehab, I have to admit I wasn't quite sure what kind of evening we'd be in for, but Ace was back in full force ('cause he told us so!) and delivered a gig that blew our minds and exceeded our wildest expectations in terms of the set list.
Loud, energetic, funny, and above all entertaining, Ace is back!
But that's a story for another day, and indeed book.
Last Friday I had the pleasure of seeing one of my guitar heroes live on stage for the fourth time, which in itself was fantastic, but given that the last three times he was plastered in makeup and a member of KISS, the band from the basement all those years ago, and this time he was headlining his own show, I was over the moon.
Ace Frehley has never been one of the world's greatest guitarists - he's certainly no Eddie Van Halen, or Steve Vai, or Jimmy page for that matter, but he's got that rare quality in that he knows his limitations, both in terms of guitar playing and singing, and plays magnificently to his strengths.
Backed by three young bucks dressed subtly, but effectively, in identical black jumpsuits, Frehley tore the London Astoria apart for ninety minutes, kicking off with Rip It Out, the opening cut from his 1978 solo album, and ending with a rousing version of Cold Gin.
Though KISS has long been dominated by the songwriting talents of Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley, whenever Ace threw one into the mix it was invariably a great one, and we got plenty of his KISS offerings as proof.
Parasite, Rocket Ride, Shock Me (complete with smoking, literally, guitar solo) and Hard Times had us old KISS fans in rapture, while Snowblind, New York Groove and a blistering Rock Soldiers did Ace's solo canon proud.
Dedicating Breakout to late KISS drummer (and co-writer) Eric Carr, and thanking Paul Stanley for writing Love Gun, which was given a supercharged workout during the encore, Ace proved himself the perfect host for an evening of rock and roll, even rescuing a dwarf from the audience and letting him watch the rest of show from stage left, telling him "We got to look after one another."
Given Ace's yo-yo relationship with alocholoism and rehab, I have to admit I wasn't quite sure what kind of evening we'd be in for, but Ace was back in full force ('cause he told us so!) and delivered a gig that blew our minds and exceeded our wildest expectations in terms of the set list.
Loud, energetic, funny, and above all entertaining, Ace is back!
Monday, 14 April 2008
Nobody's Fireproof
It's a universal truth that if you play with fire, then you might just get burned.
It's also a universal truth that some people have the misguided belief that they're fireproof, and so not so much tiptoe as tango through the raging infernos of chance, oblivious to the fact that they're so very often just seconds from catching fire, moments from the inevitable crash and burn.
The subject of today's lesson most likely had this misguided belief that he and his beautiful fiance, the woman of his dreams, without whom nothing else mattered, as he so tragically and accurately proclaimed, could dance through the flames like asbestos ballerinas.
But he was wrong.
She got burned, metaphorically and physically, and shuffled off her young, mortal coil in a scalding bath, while he slept off his narcotic dalliances in the bedroom.
They played with fire, she got burned, he got branded with the guilt of having taken her hand and leading her onto this particular burning dance floor.
Without her nothing else mattered, he had said, and in the end he was right.
Thirteen weeks of guilt rest awfully heavy on a man's shoulders, and in the end he fulfilled his prophecy. End of the line.
Nobody's fireproof. Nobody.
It's also a universal truth that some people have the misguided belief that they're fireproof, and so not so much tiptoe as tango through the raging infernos of chance, oblivious to the fact that they're so very often just seconds from catching fire, moments from the inevitable crash and burn.
The subject of today's lesson most likely had this misguided belief that he and his beautiful fiance, the woman of his dreams, without whom nothing else mattered, as he so tragically and accurately proclaimed, could dance through the flames like asbestos ballerinas.
But he was wrong.
She got burned, metaphorically and physically, and shuffled off her young, mortal coil in a scalding bath, while he slept off his narcotic dalliances in the bedroom.
They played with fire, she got burned, he got branded with the guilt of having taken her hand and leading her onto this particular burning dance floor.
Without her nothing else mattered, he had said, and in the end he was right.
Thirteen weeks of guilt rest awfully heavy on a man's shoulders, and in the end he fulfilled his prophecy. End of the line.
Nobody's fireproof. Nobody.
Tuesday, 8 April 2008
Something About Nothing
A friend raised the question the other week as to whether modern man can survive without the internet. My initial reaction was yes, of course he can, but he probably wouldn't want to as we've all become somewhat addicted to our daily fix of email, myspace, MSN or any of a hundred million other distractions on the world wide web.
However, having just spent five days in the company of those nearest and dearest to me, mostly hanging out of the south coast, taking in the sea air and generally doing a whole bunch of not much at all, aside from ten minutes on the net yesterday to check my email, this is the first time I've been online for almost a week.
I can't say I've missed it. When it's part of my day to day routine it seems as natural as breathing, and almost as habitual. I log on, I check my mail, I check my Live Journal pages, I check the BBC news page, and on and on and on. I must admit I don't tend to surf aimlessly, just as I don't channel surf my television aimlessly (and in fact aside from when it's being used by my DVD player or Xbox 360 it's rarely on), so generally my online activity is over in fifteen minutes or so.
However, the lack of online action for the best part of the last week proved to me that I have no craving for the internet whatsoever. I can take it, which I frequently do, or leave it, but I know that the choice is mine. There's no niggling voice at the back of my head that resorts to panic if I can't get online.
The one thing I have missed is writing - I enjoy penning this little blog for whoever you are out there reading this, and also for my own satisfaction. It's cathartic, and although you may think that all this is just mindless drivel and inconsequence, it's my equivalent of detox from the world.
So, there you have it - another note from this asylum that I call my brain. Thanks for reading, and have a good day.
However, having just spent five days in the company of those nearest and dearest to me, mostly hanging out of the south coast, taking in the sea air and generally doing a whole bunch of not much at all, aside from ten minutes on the net yesterday to check my email, this is the first time I've been online for almost a week.
I can't say I've missed it. When it's part of my day to day routine it seems as natural as breathing, and almost as habitual. I log on, I check my mail, I check my Live Journal pages, I check the BBC news page, and on and on and on. I must admit I don't tend to surf aimlessly, just as I don't channel surf my television aimlessly (and in fact aside from when it's being used by my DVD player or Xbox 360 it's rarely on), so generally my online activity is over in fifteen minutes or so.
However, the lack of online action for the best part of the last week proved to me that I have no craving for the internet whatsoever. I can take it, which I frequently do, or leave it, but I know that the choice is mine. There's no niggling voice at the back of my head that resorts to panic if I can't get online.
The one thing I have missed is writing - I enjoy penning this little blog for whoever you are out there reading this, and also for my own satisfaction. It's cathartic, and although you may think that all this is just mindless drivel and inconsequence, it's my equivalent of detox from the world.
So, there you have it - another note from this asylum that I call my brain. Thanks for reading, and have a good day.
Monday, 31 March 2008
A Beautiful Murder
Counting Crows - Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings
Ever since I first heard Mr Jones, the debut single from Counting Crows way back in 1985 I've been a huge fan of the band. There's something about singer and main songwriter Adam Duritz's impassioned and tortured lyrics that, in common with Trent Reznor, really seem to speak to me and understand what goes on in this head and heart of mine.
It seems like an eternity since the Crows last album, Hard Candy, hit the shelves some six years ago, but with their new offering, Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings, the wait has most definitely been worth it.
Flying in the face of their record company's wishes, Duritz stuck to his vision of a record that is for all intents and purposes actually two short albums that perfectly complement each other.
The first six tracks, the Saturday Night of the equation are up tempo rock songs, packing more emotion and musical hooks into thirty minutes than some bands manage in their entire careers. Opener 1492 powers along like a freight train, and has a rough around the edges feel that I've witnessed live with the band on occasion, but which has never been captured successfully on record until now.
The following five tracks are simultaneously fresh slices of Counting Crows' trademark sound while also managing to sound as though each of them are refugees from their various previous records, particularly Hanging Tree which could have sat very easily among the songs on This Desert Life, and contains one of Duritz's finest examples of the raw emotion he infuses his lyrics as he sings "You open windows, And you wait for someone warm to come inside, And then you freeze to death alone."
As Saturday Night's closing tune Cowboys comes to an abrupt end, the more sublime Sunday Mornings side of the album gently arrives in the form of Washington Square, a sparse but devastatingly lonely song that will stop hearts in the live arena.
Having stated in an interview that he approached the writing of this record as if it were to be the band's swansong (though he stresses this isn't the case), Duritz clverly recycles moments from their debut album August And Everything After with the line "I dream of Michelangelo when I'm lying in my bed" in the short but poignant When I Dream Of Michelangelo, reprising the line from the first album's Mr Jones.
Having confessed that he's spent the last few years falling apart, Duritz is at his most beautifully vulnerable in songs like Anyone But You and You Can't Count On Me (which the record company lobbied unsuccessfully to change to the more positive You CAN Count On Me), and even ends his liner notes with another reprise, this time from Recovering The Satellites' haunting A Long December by musing that "maybe this year WILL be better than the last."
There are very few singer/songwriters who wear their emotions so nakedly on their sleeves as Duritz does, but in doing so once more he has created an album that any Counting Crows fan will instantly take to their heart, and which will remain relevant and engaging for years to come.
A literal record of two halves, and one that this murder of Crows can be extremely proud of.
Ever since I first heard Mr Jones, the debut single from Counting Crows way back in 1985 I've been a huge fan of the band. There's something about singer and main songwriter Adam Duritz's impassioned and tortured lyrics that, in common with Trent Reznor, really seem to speak to me and understand what goes on in this head and heart of mine.
It seems like an eternity since the Crows last album, Hard Candy, hit the shelves some six years ago, but with their new offering, Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings, the wait has most definitely been worth it.
Flying in the face of their record company's wishes, Duritz stuck to his vision of a record that is for all intents and purposes actually two short albums that perfectly complement each other.
The first six tracks, the Saturday Night of the equation are up tempo rock songs, packing more emotion and musical hooks into thirty minutes than some bands manage in their entire careers. Opener 1492 powers along like a freight train, and has a rough around the edges feel that I've witnessed live with the band on occasion, but which has never been captured successfully on record until now.
The following five tracks are simultaneously fresh slices of Counting Crows' trademark sound while also managing to sound as though each of them are refugees from their various previous records, particularly Hanging Tree which could have sat very easily among the songs on This Desert Life, and contains one of Duritz's finest examples of the raw emotion he infuses his lyrics as he sings "You open windows, And you wait for someone warm to come inside, And then you freeze to death alone."
As Saturday Night's closing tune Cowboys comes to an abrupt end, the more sublime Sunday Mornings side of the album gently arrives in the form of Washington Square, a sparse but devastatingly lonely song that will stop hearts in the live arena.
Having stated in an interview that he approached the writing of this record as if it were to be the band's swansong (though he stresses this isn't the case), Duritz clverly recycles moments from their debut album August And Everything After with the line "I dream of Michelangelo when I'm lying in my bed" in the short but poignant When I Dream Of Michelangelo, reprising the line from the first album's Mr Jones.
Having confessed that he's spent the last few years falling apart, Duritz is at his most beautifully vulnerable in songs like Anyone But You and You Can't Count On Me (which the record company lobbied unsuccessfully to change to the more positive You CAN Count On Me), and even ends his liner notes with another reprise, this time from Recovering The Satellites' haunting A Long December by musing that "maybe this year WILL be better than the last."
There are very few singer/songwriters who wear their emotions so nakedly on their sleeves as Duritz does, but in doing so once more he has created an album that any Counting Crows fan will instantly take to their heart, and which will remain relevant and engaging for years to come.
A literal record of two halves, and one that this murder of Crows can be extremely proud of.
Thursday, 27 March 2008
The Guns In Brixton
Velvet Revolver - Brixton Academy, London - 25th March 2008
It's a remarkably mild night in Brixton as we meet in The Beehive and sink a quick beer before heading off to the Carling Academy to see one of rock's current crop of killer live acts, Velvet Revolver.
We're on comp tickets tonight which saves us both the best part of a ton and more importantly to my skewed way of thinking, the need to do my usual time in the queue that snakes down the side of the venue.
We catch the last few songs of the support act, Pearl, during which time I remark several times that their rhythm guitarist looks like the bastard child of Anthrax's Scott Ian. The band itself are pretty good, ending their set with the best version of Nutbush City Limits that I've ever heard before heading off to the merch stand to sign autographs and chat to the fans.
This is a particularly endearing gesture to the fans in these days of high security, not to mention a lucrative one for the band who no doubt sell more than a few t-shirts and EPs on the strength of their pretty blonde singer's promise of kisses for all who come and say hello.
After observing the meet and greet for a few minutes, mainly to catch a closer look at the cute female bassist, not something you see every day,we head back in to the main hall to await the main event.
The lights dim and the band hit the stage with Let It Roll, the opening cut off their second and latest album Libertad, which having only picked up recently I'm still very enamoured with. It's a slice of honest, good old fashioned rock and roll, and translates perfectly to the live arena.
More authentically Guns'n'Roses than Axl Rose's current tribute band, Velvet Revolver bassist Duff McKagen looks lean and mean, his blonde main outshone only by his smile as he locks in with Use You Illusion era Guns drummer Matt Sorum. Slash, looking impossibly cool in shades and his trademark top hat cuts an impressive and distinctive silhouette and he stands in that pose playing his guitar like his life depended on it.
Dave Kushner, the only member of the band not to have previously been in multi-platinum acts, holds his own with Slash with no problems, running around the stage in his lumberjack shirt and baseball cap, looking uncannily like Tom Morello's slighty crazier twin.
It's ex-Stone Temple Pilots man Scott Weiland that really blows me away tonight, though. Not having paid much attention to STP I was aware of Plush and Sour Girl, but apart from that only his reputation as an unpredictable habitual junkie has preceeded him in my book.
Beginning the gig in a heavy duffel coat, he gradully disrobes throughout the show until he is wearing only a ridiculously tight pair of hipsters that threaten to reveal more than he intended at any moment, and a sheen of sweat.
He prowls the stage like a rabid wolverine, looking occasionally like a posessed GI Joe figure, as his voice soars through the thick wall of rock and roll noise that his band mates produce, letting the pace drop only twice during the show, once for the Guns classic patience, giving Duff and Slash the opportunity to take front stage, the latter with a Page-esque double necked guitar, and for their best know track Fall To Pieces.
To my surprise and delight we get another couple of Guns tracks, It's So Easy and Mr Brownstone, both of which sound even more vital tonight than when I'd previously seen them performed live twenty years ago. Judging by the 'STP' chanting crowd's reaction, and the fact that Sex Type Thing aside I didn't recognise them as VR songs, they play a similar number of Stone Temple Pilots songs.
I can never understand why so often artists are unwilling to acknowledge their pasts, so this well deserved showcase of former songwriting glories by both of VR's feeder bands is very welcome and takes the gig from being merely great to being absolutely fantastic.
Rumours have abounded this past week that Weiland is on the verge of quitting the band, fuelled by his very public spat with drummer Sorum on his blog and the recently announced reformation of Stone Temple Pilots, but I for one hope that this isn't the last VR tour, as Weiland had announced from the stage a few nights earlier - a claim refuted the following day by Slash, as the world needs bands like Velvet Revolver to show the young bucks just how it should be done.
(footnote - browsing the web a couple of days after the gig, it turns out that it was Scott Ian on stage with Pearl, looking every bit as young and vital as the last time I saw him in Anthrax nearly two decades ago.)
It's a remarkably mild night in Brixton as we meet in The Beehive and sink a quick beer before heading off to the Carling Academy to see one of rock's current crop of killer live acts, Velvet Revolver.
We're on comp tickets tonight which saves us both the best part of a ton and more importantly to my skewed way of thinking, the need to do my usual time in the queue that snakes down the side of the venue.
We catch the last few songs of the support act, Pearl, during which time I remark several times that their rhythm guitarist looks like the bastard child of Anthrax's Scott Ian. The band itself are pretty good, ending their set with the best version of Nutbush City Limits that I've ever heard before heading off to the merch stand to sign autographs and chat to the fans.
This is a particularly endearing gesture to the fans in these days of high security, not to mention a lucrative one for the band who no doubt sell more than a few t-shirts and EPs on the strength of their pretty blonde singer's promise of kisses for all who come and say hello.
After observing the meet and greet for a few minutes, mainly to catch a closer look at the cute female bassist, not something you see every day,we head back in to the main hall to await the main event.
The lights dim and the band hit the stage with Let It Roll, the opening cut off their second and latest album Libertad, which having only picked up recently I'm still very enamoured with. It's a slice of honest, good old fashioned rock and roll, and translates perfectly to the live arena.
More authentically Guns'n'Roses than Axl Rose's current tribute band, Velvet Revolver bassist Duff McKagen looks lean and mean, his blonde main outshone only by his smile as he locks in with Use You Illusion era Guns drummer Matt Sorum. Slash, looking impossibly cool in shades and his trademark top hat cuts an impressive and distinctive silhouette and he stands in that pose playing his guitar like his life depended on it.
Dave Kushner, the only member of the band not to have previously been in multi-platinum acts, holds his own with Slash with no problems, running around the stage in his lumberjack shirt and baseball cap, looking uncannily like Tom Morello's slighty crazier twin.
It's ex-Stone Temple Pilots man Scott Weiland that really blows me away tonight, though. Not having paid much attention to STP I was aware of Plush and Sour Girl, but apart from that only his reputation as an unpredictable habitual junkie has preceeded him in my book.
Beginning the gig in a heavy duffel coat, he gradully disrobes throughout the show until he is wearing only a ridiculously tight pair of hipsters that threaten to reveal more than he intended at any moment, and a sheen of sweat.
He prowls the stage like a rabid wolverine, looking occasionally like a posessed GI Joe figure, as his voice soars through the thick wall of rock and roll noise that his band mates produce, letting the pace drop only twice during the show, once for the Guns classic patience, giving Duff and Slash the opportunity to take front stage, the latter with a Page-esque double necked guitar, and for their best know track Fall To Pieces.
To my surprise and delight we get another couple of Guns tracks, It's So Easy and Mr Brownstone, both of which sound even more vital tonight than when I'd previously seen them performed live twenty years ago. Judging by the 'STP' chanting crowd's reaction, and the fact that Sex Type Thing aside I didn't recognise them as VR songs, they play a similar number of Stone Temple Pilots songs.
I can never understand why so often artists are unwilling to acknowledge their pasts, so this well deserved showcase of former songwriting glories by both of VR's feeder bands is very welcome and takes the gig from being merely great to being absolutely fantastic.
Rumours have abounded this past week that Weiland is on the verge of quitting the band, fuelled by his very public spat with drummer Sorum on his blog and the recently announced reformation of Stone Temple Pilots, but I for one hope that this isn't the last VR tour, as Weiland had announced from the stage a few nights earlier - a claim refuted the following day by Slash, as the world needs bands like Velvet Revolver to show the young bucks just how it should be done.
(footnote - browsing the web a couple of days after the gig, it turns out that it was Scott Ian on stage with Pearl, looking every bit as young and vital as the last time I saw him in Anthrax nearly two decades ago.)
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