Slayer
On one side of the stage, an
extravagantly tattooed six-foot Amazon wearing a skimpy PVC bikini top breathes
fire over the front rows. On the other a snarling she-cat tosses her voluminous
locks and unleashes a barrage of sleazy Rock'n'Roll riffs while the balding
gnome in the middle drenches her in beer then thrusts the neck of the bottle
down her throat ... but enough about the support band, Nashville Pussy. Bring on
Slayer, those titans of 1980s thrash metal.
The stage is dominated by a drum riser so vertiginous that the sticks-man has to
be airlifted into place. He is flanked by the mandatory wall of Marshall amps.
These traditional heavy-metal accessories are strictly for showing off - the
band don’t want to rupture the eardrums of their ageing fan-base. The
fresh-faced teenage minority stand out in their newly ironed Slipknot T-shirts
but the majority of the audience are battle-hardened rock veterans. Their woolly
mammoth manes have been clipped but they wear their old-school metal T-shirts
(Anthrax, Iron Maiden, French Connection …) like badges of honour.
The Slayer frontline activate their ritual rapid-fire guitar assault,
accompanied by the brisk nodding, dog-style, of formation headbanging. You get
the idea pretty quickly. If you’re not one of the faithful, you get bored
pretty quickly too. You then get roasted slowly in the escalating Barrowland
furnace.
Occasionally the band takes longer, deeper strokes, offering something sturdier
to get your teeth into, before reverting to no-mess, no-fuss type. Like Ronseal
Quick-Dry, it does the job or your money back. Stupid to expect anything more
really.
This
review by Fiona Shepherd
was originally featured on
at
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