Showing posts with label def leppard. Show all posts
Showing posts with label def leppard. Show all posts
Friday, May 9, 2014
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Mötley Crüe, "Kickstart My Heart"
Nobody really believes that this is Mötley Crüe's final tour, do they? Yadda yadda they've signed a contract saying they'll never tour again--these are not guys who are known for being law-abiders, or for their integrity, or for showing any concern for their legacy and reputation. Vince Neil's voice may be almost as dead as the guy from Hanoi Rocks that he killed with his car, but that's not going to stop them. Count on the "Fück the Cöntract" tour coming to your town before 2020.
Mötley Crüe is not a cool band, and it's easy to hear why Metallica and Slayer considered them the enemy. But they're much darker and heavier than the glam metal bands they were marketed with. More importantly, they're an excellent pop band. If you've ever thought that Michael Jackson would sound better with raging guitars and stadium-sized fills, Mötley Crüe is your band. I'll even give them credit for being more of a metal band than their VH1 contemporaries, like Bon Jovi, Aerosmith or Def Leppard.
You're going to try to not like this song, and it isn't going to work.
"Kickstart My Heart" is probably as close as Mötley Crüe will get to a signature song. Sex, drugs and cars led by two stolen riffs (Montrose's "Bad Motor Scooter" and Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love,") a blazing solo and a shoutalong chorus. The star-making sheen of new producer Bob Rock brought out an explosive, cinematic sound that nailed the perfect blend of Shout at the Devil's grime and the polish of Girls, Girls Girls. If you're wondering why Mötley Crüe is headlining arenas this summer and not Twisted Sister, here's a good place to remind yourself.
Mötley Crüe is not a cool band, and it's easy to hear why Metallica and Slayer considered them the enemy. But they're much darker and heavier than the glam metal bands they were marketed with. More importantly, they're an excellent pop band. If you've ever thought that Michael Jackson would sound better with raging guitars and stadium-sized fills, Mötley Crüe is your band. I'll even give them credit for being more of a metal band than their VH1 contemporaries, like Bon Jovi, Aerosmith or Def Leppard.
You're going to try to not like this song, and it isn't going to work.
"Kickstart My Heart" is probably as close as Mötley Crüe will get to a signature song. Sex, drugs and cars led by two stolen riffs (Montrose's "Bad Motor Scooter" and Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love,") a blazing solo and a shoutalong chorus. The star-making sheen of new producer Bob Rock brought out an explosive, cinematic sound that nailed the perfect blend of Shout at the Devil's grime and the polish of Girls, Girls Girls. If you're wondering why Mötley Crüe is headlining arenas this summer and not Twisted Sister, here's a good place to remind yourself.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
The Cult at Terminal 5
"What deep cuts do you want to hear?" My buddy asked me, moments before The Cult's set at Terminal 5. My answer: None. I don't love The Cult. They've got some good tunes, but their bombast, coupled with pretenses of being alternative and hard rock without being great either, hasn't endeared them to this headbanger. However, I do love metal, and The Cult are a part of its history, so I took the chance to see them.
Openers Against Me!, now more famous for their newly-transgendered frontman than their music, played a surprisingly likeable pop-punk set. Having been disillusioned with the genre since Ixnay on the Hombre and bored by the show I caught from them five years ago, where they seemed unsure of what to make of their major label status and touring slot with Mastodon, it was fun to see them evolve into such confident and engaging performers. Perhaps inspired to prove herself under her new identity, Laura Jane Grace charged through the show with Green Day-inspired power punk and glam rock androgyny. Best of all, the band covered the Replacements' "Androgynous," a choice that would have been predictable had they not enlisted help from surprise guest Joan Jett.
Getting on the good foot with "Lil' Devil," The Cult set the tone for a hits-filled night. It was not to be--a gracious helping from their newest, Choice of Weapon, suggested leftovers from Josh Homme's Desert Sessions and were received as politely as one could hope. But rock n' roll isn't polite, and The Cult's most raucous moments ignited the crowd, particularly "She Sells Sanctuary" and the definitive "Fire Woman." Windmill expert Billy Duffy, whose jangling connects Johnny Marr to Def Leppard, rang out coliseum-sized power chords that emphasized his case as one of the first alternapop heroes to reach arena rock status. The band's MVP, without a doubt.
But my problem with The Cult, and particularly frontman Ian Astbury, isn't that they're bad. It's that they're not good enough. Like his idol, Jim Morrison, Astbury is both his band's charismatic draw and its pompous foil. He doesn't seem like a bad guy, and in fact was chatting with fans and signing tickets before the show. But his composed sleazeball stage persona didn't do him any favors. Between enough f-words to embarrass Lil' Wayne, Astbury bantered about how hot it was inside (without taking off his fur and leather jacket), pretended to play three different tambourines that all got tossed to the crowd and never got worked up enough to remove his sunglasses. For a more engaging rock star, none of these acts would have seemed forced, but Astbury's considerable talents don't quite live up to his ego. I have seen Axl Rose, Axl Rose was a hero of mine, and Ian, you're no Axl Rose.
But to be fair, Astbury can sing, and his Lizard King fantasies suited Duffy's riffage just fine. Encoring with "Love Removal Machine," the band unleashed what looked like energy that they had saved up in the last hour, thrashing out their cockrock tendencies like mystic rock icons. For once, Astbury was everything that he pretended to be, and we needed him just as much as his band did.
Openers Against Me!, now more famous for their newly-transgendered frontman than their music, played a surprisingly likeable pop-punk set. Having been disillusioned with the genre since Ixnay on the Hombre and bored by the show I caught from them five years ago, where they seemed unsure of what to make of their major label status and touring slot with Mastodon, it was fun to see them evolve into such confident and engaging performers. Perhaps inspired to prove herself under her new identity, Laura Jane Grace charged through the show with Green Day-inspired power punk and glam rock androgyny. Best of all, the band covered the Replacements' "Androgynous," a choice that would have been predictable had they not enlisted help from surprise guest Joan Jett.
Getting on the good foot with "Lil' Devil," The Cult set the tone for a hits-filled night. It was not to be--a gracious helping from their newest, Choice of Weapon, suggested leftovers from Josh Homme's Desert Sessions and were received as politely as one could hope. But rock n' roll isn't polite, and The Cult's most raucous moments ignited the crowd, particularly "She Sells Sanctuary" and the definitive "Fire Woman." Windmill expert Billy Duffy, whose jangling connects Johnny Marr to Def Leppard, rang out coliseum-sized power chords that emphasized his case as one of the first alternapop heroes to reach arena rock status. The band's MVP, without a doubt.
But my problem with The Cult, and particularly frontman Ian Astbury, isn't that they're bad. It's that they're not good enough. Like his idol, Jim Morrison, Astbury is both his band's charismatic draw and its pompous foil. He doesn't seem like a bad guy, and in fact was chatting with fans and signing tickets before the show. But his composed sleazeball stage persona didn't do him any favors. Between enough f-words to embarrass Lil' Wayne, Astbury bantered about how hot it was inside (without taking off his fur and leather jacket), pretended to play three different tambourines that all got tossed to the crowd and never got worked up enough to remove his sunglasses. For a more engaging rock star, none of these acts would have seemed forced, but Astbury's considerable talents don't quite live up to his ego. I have seen Axl Rose, Axl Rose was a hero of mine, and Ian, you're no Axl Rose.
But to be fair, Astbury can sing, and his Lizard King fantasies suited Duffy's riffage just fine. Encoring with "Love Removal Machine," the band unleashed what looked like energy that they had saved up in the last hour, thrashing out their cockrock tendencies like mystic rock icons. For once, Astbury was everything that he pretended to be, and we needed him just as much as his band did.
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