Older stars still shine, but don't polish too much....a return to real rock music
Cheney Anne Markun
August 18, 2008
Some things just naturally seem to get better with age, take wine as a prime example. After years of being perfectly preserved in optimum conditions, the wine still tastes strong and vibrant, but now it´s infused with a maturity that lends to it an irresistible complexity and confidence, leaving you, the consumer, incapable of turning down glass after glass until you find yourself sprawled out on the sofa, empty glass in hand and cheeks gently flushed with the sheer pleasure of a satisfyingly decadent treat.
And so it is with rock stars. Having spent the majority of the 1980´s in a haze of pop music and neon leggings (I didn´t turn ten until 1990 so I´ll forgive myself the taste faux pas), I didn´t experience the thrill of truly great rock music until after the destructive force that was grunge ran amok through the metal scene, replacing decadence with misery, big teased up hair with greasy, lanky locks and wonderfully self indulgent guitar solos with stodgy, chord laden dirges. My induction came aged thirteen when I came across Bon Jovi´s greatest hits album and spent an entire summer soaking up its heady mix of heart breaking ballads and stadium filling anthems. I immediately took to cutting up my jeans and messing up my hair and, before long, through the genius recommendations of mail order music catalogues I discovered Guns N Roses, and an obsession was born.
Sadly for me though, by the time I was old enough (by that, I mean "by the time I looked old enough") to go to rock clubs and gigs in the sweaty, grey centre of London the music was all wrong for me. Things were stuck in the depressing quagmire of Nirvana and their cronies, wrapped up in the grating new metal sounds of track suit clad Korn or the dreadlocked headache that was Sepultra. This was never my scene. Slowly but surely though the world has turned and, like my mum always said when rifling through the 1970´s horrors of her wardrobe, things always come back into fashion and, so it was with great glee that last week, I travelled to Nottingham, England, to watch two of the greats - Def Leppard and Whitesnake.
In all fairness, the rock scene in England right now is so much better than the days before I could legally drink and one can generally find a decent pub blaring out whiskey soaked, rabble rousing rock in any town or city centre. We even have a "classic" rock station, which certainly makes working and navigating traffic jams more bearable. Despite all of this though it was with true delight that I ran into the Nottingham arena, my skinniest ripped up jeans and wrists full of silver bracelets positively shivering with excitement. I was not disappointed. Both of these bands are exceptionally professional, giving the sort of well rehearsed, poised performances that you would expect from people who have been around the block this many times. Both groups served up a perfect cocktail of their greatest hits and their newest ingredients, shaken and seasoned in just the right ways to hit your cravings but, ultimately, leave you wanting more.
Despite both being delicious and very drinkable though, it´s in the deliveries that these two eighties survivors differ. Whitesnake felt as if it had been thrust into your hand in a well used, slightly cracked whiskey glass, the name of some sleazy, reputation ruining nightclub stamped onto it´s side by a big chested, very sexy blonde waitress who comes at you, teetering on her high heels and winking in a way that lets you know, beyond a doubt, that "you´ve scored". Def Leppard, on the other hand, arrives in a nicely polished wine glass, presented to you on a trendy, silver tray by a well dressed man with slicked back hair and a big cheesy smile who invites you enthusiastically, and somewhat smugly, to "have a nice day". Now, this doesn´t mean that I didn´t enjoy Def Leppard, in fact I was leading the sing along and pumping my fists with the best of them. No, their shininess didn´t make Def Leppard less enjoyable but it certainly made them less of an experience. To me, rock should always be a little dirty, slightly naughty and leave you feeling as if you´ve done something that you´re parents would never approve of. Tonight, Whitesnake did just that and, watching David Coverdale stalk across that stage, doing unspeakable things with his microphone stand and churning the crowd up into a frenzy I knew that I was witnessing rock at its filthiest, deviant best. As I said, older stars still shine brightly, but please don´t polish them too much.
And so it is with rock stars. Having spent the majority of the 1980´s in a haze of pop music and neon leggings (I didn´t turn ten until 1990 so I´ll forgive myself the taste faux pas), I didn´t experience the thrill of truly great rock music until after the destructive force that was grunge ran amok through the metal scene, replacing decadence with misery, big teased up hair with greasy, lanky locks and wonderfully self indulgent guitar solos with stodgy, chord laden dirges. My induction came aged thirteen when I came across Bon Jovi´s greatest hits album and spent an entire summer soaking up its heady mix of heart breaking ballads and stadium filling anthems. I immediately took to cutting up my jeans and messing up my hair and, before long, through the genius recommendations of mail order music catalogues I discovered Guns N Roses, and an obsession was born.
Sadly for me though, by the time I was old enough (by that, I mean "by the time I looked old enough") to go to rock clubs and gigs in the sweaty, grey centre of London the music was all wrong for me. Things were stuck in the depressing quagmire of Nirvana and their cronies, wrapped up in the grating new metal sounds of track suit clad Korn or the dreadlocked headache that was Sepultra. This was never my scene. Slowly but surely though the world has turned and, like my mum always said when rifling through the 1970´s horrors of her wardrobe, things always come back into fashion and, so it was with great glee that last week, I travelled to Nottingham, England, to watch two of the greats - Def Leppard and Whitesnake.
In all fairness, the rock scene in England right now is so much better than the days before I could legally drink and one can generally find a decent pub blaring out whiskey soaked, rabble rousing rock in any town or city centre. We even have a "classic" rock station, which certainly makes working and navigating traffic jams more bearable. Despite all of this though it was with true delight that I ran into the Nottingham arena, my skinniest ripped up jeans and wrists full of silver bracelets positively shivering with excitement. I was not disappointed. Both of these bands are exceptionally professional, giving the sort of well rehearsed, poised performances that you would expect from people who have been around the block this many times. Both groups served up a perfect cocktail of their greatest hits and their newest ingredients, shaken and seasoned in just the right ways to hit your cravings but, ultimately, leave you wanting more.
Despite both being delicious and very drinkable though, it´s in the deliveries that these two eighties survivors differ. Whitesnake felt as if it had been thrust into your hand in a well used, slightly cracked whiskey glass, the name of some sleazy, reputation ruining nightclub stamped onto it´s side by a big chested, very sexy blonde waitress who comes at you, teetering on her high heels and winking in a way that lets you know, beyond a doubt, that "you´ve scored". Def Leppard, on the other hand, arrives in a nicely polished wine glass, presented to you on a trendy, silver tray by a well dressed man with slicked back hair and a big cheesy smile who invites you enthusiastically, and somewhat smugly, to "have a nice day". Now, this doesn´t mean that I didn´t enjoy Def Leppard, in fact I was leading the sing along and pumping my fists with the best of them. No, their shininess didn´t make Def Leppard less enjoyable but it certainly made them less of an experience. To me, rock should always be a little dirty, slightly naughty and leave you feeling as if you´ve done something that you´re parents would never approve of. Tonight, Whitesnake did just that and, watching David Coverdale stalk across that stage, doing unspeakable things with his microphone stand and churning the crowd up into a frenzy I knew that I was witnessing rock at its filthiest, deviant best. As I said, older stars still shine brightly, but please don´t polish them too much.