Black Sabbath - Metal Pioneers Take A Triumphant Final Bow - Manchester Arena, Manchester, 22.01.17.

“How the fuck are you?” hollers Ozzy Osbourne, clad in glittery black and smudged kohl from behind his microphone, over the distorted fretwork of Fairies Wear Boots. The Prince of Darkness has seen better days – nearing seventy, the lines on his face are more pronounced, his posture more shrunken and frail – but with several thousand cheering acolytes in front of him, he strikes an oddly defiant pose. To his left, guitarist Tony Iommi, resplendent in velvet, is methodically statesmanlike as he concisely conjures stormy licks; to his right, the shaggy Geezer Butler franticly strums his bass with all four fingers like a man possessed. It is high pantomime, crushingly heavy and joyously booming.

Ozzy Osbourne of Black Sabbath performing live at
Download Festival 2016. (Credit to Birmingham Mail.)

Few bands can match the longevity of Black Sabbath in terms of critical and commercial success. Though a revolving-door cast of members have played in the group throughout their forty-nine year career, including the late, legendary Ronnie James Dio, the classic lineup of Osbourne, Iommi and Butler are forever the definitive core trio of the band. Together, they are icons, architects of doom, sludge and stoner metal, with an early back catalogue of stone-cold classics that remain the genesis of heavy metal to this day.

It’s from their first four records that all but one track is culled from in this celebratory farewell lap of a tour, aptly named The End. Over a hundred minutes, Osbourne and company forgo a mawkish send-off in favour of dispatching gloriously camp and dark renditions of their signature songs. From the foreboding, inverted tritone riff of Black Sabbath, thrilling in its chilling execution, to the crunching blues of N.I.B., aided by Butler’s psychedelic bass-work, Sabbath serve up slices of definitive metal with a workmanlike efficiency, backed up impressively by touring drummer Tommy Clufetos.

Arguably the biggest surprise is Osbourne himself, notoriously unreliable as a vocalist on stage. Despite his advanced years and reputation, he is near-perfect across the first half of the show, with Under the Sun and Into the Void impressive highlights. Though it wavers later in the night, there is more good than bad with the Madman’s performance. The same can be said for Iommi, who deploys exquisite solos on Hand of Doom and a low-slung Dirty Women, but plays the seminal Iron Man in a key different from the rest of the band. Clufetos too suffers from a touch of overindulgence; during Rat Salad, his ten-minute drum solo could easily have given way to another song or two.

Ozzy Osbourne and Tony Iommi of Black Sabbath performing
live at Download Festival 2016. (Credit to Birmingham Mail.)

But these are small gripes with an otherwise well-polished, warmly received show. And when the hits come – an electrifying War Pigs, a bruising Children of the Grave – they outweigh the cost of mistakes. “One more song!” chants Osbourne, clinging to the side of an amp as the lights go down again, and duly, his wish is granted with a blistering Paranoid, still as scorching as it was nearly five decades ago. Black Sabbath may have reached The End; but undoubtedly, their legacy will live on long after their final bow.

The Dillinger Escape Plan - Mathcore Veterans Bow Out with Abrupt Nihilism - Manchester Academy 2, Manchester, 20.01.17.

As The Dillinger Escape Plan wind down their penultimate track of the night, fan favourite Sunshine the Werewolf, their anarchic wall of sound hits the emergency breaks, Greg Puciato breaks off from his hoarse vocal screams to suddenly wave frantically at security. It transpires that a fan has suffered a seizure at the barrier, spotted by the frontman in a small gap nestled at the front of the sell-out crowd at Manchester Academy. As medics swarm the front-of-stage area, Puciato implores the audience to step back, and that the show is likely over. It’s an abrupt finish to a band known for abrupt finishes, on what is ostensibly their final European headline tour.

The Dillinger Escape Plan, performing live at Leeds Festival
2016. (Credit to Ben Gibson.)

Is it really the end for The Dillinger Escape Plan though? New Jersey’s experimental mathcore veterans – arguably pioneers of the scene – have flip-flopped between the terms hiatus and break-up over their impending departure, twenty years after they first emerged. After six acclaimed albums, TDEP are bowing out; and unlike other dissolutions, there is the foreboding sense that this is final.

They certainly intend to leave an impression though. Under hellish red and moody blue lighting, with constant strobing, Dillinger set about delivering a nihilistic set of genre-bending metal that threatens to blow all the doors out, such is its intensity. Leaning heavily on 2016’s Dissociation, they hurtle through Limerent Death and Panasonic Youth with a barely-restrained aura of violence, aided by the antics of Puciato, guitarists Ben Weinman and Kevin Antreassian and bass player Liam Wilson, as they clamber over speakers and incite countless, brutal circle pits. It is a feral, ferocious performance that captivates with its raw brutality.

TDEP are a musically-diverse entity however; new track Symptom of Terminal Illness is a swirling, stormy plea of a track; the punk balladry of One of Us is the Killer highlights their tender side. The soaring alt-metal of Milk Lizard is also ecstatically welcomed, and when the scatter-jazz piano of Mouth of Ghosts opens the encore, a hushed appreciation falls over the venue. All are built upon the excellent drum work of Billy Rymer, whose ability to flick between swing and common time is a skill somewhat unheralded in the shadow of his vocalist.

The Dillinger Escape Plan, performing live at Leeds Festival
2016. (Credit to Ben Gibson.)

With good reason too. Puciato remains one of metal’s most electrifying frontmen, bleeding a visceral passion, if not blood too in his performance. It is his vocals that elevate Dillinger’s material live, from the raw-throated war cry of Hero of the Soviet Union, to the spindly falsetto he spits on the strident Black Bubblegum. For the closing one-two punch of Farewell, Mona Lisa and the animalistic Prancer, he launches himself from amp to amp, climbing up them like a demented monkey. Yet, when he sees the distress late on, he dives in to help the medics in a show-ending act that still speaks volumes about his ability to connect. TDEP are not a sentimental band; but with their final acts, they signify that they remain a thrilling live beast, drenched in a sweaty humanity.

Red Hot Chili Peppers - Ageless Funk Unit Remain Gloriously Outlandish - Manchester Arena, Manchester, 14.12.16

“I was just about to play the wrong song,” announces Michael Balzary, or Flea as he is better known, to raucous laughter. “The one thing you do if you’ve been in the Red Hot Chili Peppers for thirty-five years is consistently embarrass yourself,” he adds as singer Anthony Kiedis chuckles at him. “You get used to it.” Behind them, large screens depict band members being decapitated in cartoon form as well as fetishized imagery of female buttocks. It’s shamelessly juvenile and gloriously outlandish, snuff in technicolour that aims to titillate, rudely and crudely.

Red Hot Chili Peppers performing live in Birmingham
in 2016. (Credit to Andy Shaw.)

The ageless LA funk unit, mercifully bereft of cock-socks, are not known for their deeper insights. Indeed, their odes to sex and drugs border on the fantastically dumb on occasions – but their absurdity and audacity has always worked thanks to an urgent high-spiritedness and their superb musical credentials. Their first stop of two in Manchester on their UK tour is in support of eleventh album The Getaway; and after a summer of festivals, it gives them a chance to dig deep and showcase their skills.

Flea, hair dyed cornflower yellow, is the cornerstone of RHCP’s sound, a genuine bass virtuoso. Dressed like a Jackson Pollock painting viewed on acid, he gurns and slaps hard through muscular versions of Around the World and The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie. When matched with guitarist Josh Klinghoffer and drummer Chad Smith, the three are thrilling, from the feedback-drenched finale of Don’t Forget Me to the thrilling punk racket of Nobody Weird Like Me, on which support act Babymetal make a fleeting cameo. “Who were those mystical Japanese girls who came up here flying out of control?” the bassist quips with a manic smile, clearly having a ball.

He’s matched in the crowd-pleasing stakes by singer Kiedis, clad in biker shorts, snapback and porno-tache, whose way with a lyric is amusingly filthy. When describing a sexual act on the propulsive disco-tinged Go Robot, there’s a dirty grin stretched across his face, like a schoolboy discovering a swearword for the first time. On the hard-rocking Higher Ground, he throbs with a primal energy, prowling and spinning across the stage like a lecherous pterodactyl. Yet when he slows it down for the heart-to-heart cries of Otherside, he is equally watchable, an enthralling presence with near-impeccable vocals and an undefined magnetic charisma.

Anthony Kiedis of Red Hot Chili Peppers performing live
in Birmingham in 2016. (Credit to Birmingham Mail.)

Aided by a spectacular light-show that utilises Chinese Lantern-style strips on wires, it is a slick, tight performance, a sharp cry from the pedestrian nature of their Reading and Leeds slots in August. From the gorgeous Snow ((Hey Oh)) to the riotous By the Way, RHCP look once more like they’re having a good time. Though they skip over several of their biggest hits, no-one feels short-changed; and by the time Smith hurls his drumsticks into the crowd after a visceral Give It Away, the Chilis have confidently reasserted their live credentials. As Flea handstands his way across the stage, he raises his feet in triumph. Fortune faded? Thankfully, not quite yet.

The Cure - Gothic Rock Stalwarts Rattle Off Hit-Heavy Show - Manchester Arena, Manchester, 29.11.16

“Hello Manchester, it’s been a long time,” Robert Smith, draped in black and smudged in kohl, hurriedly mumbles into the microphone as he switches guitars. It isn’t a curt greeting, but rather one born of nervous habits; Smith has never been the most comfortable man in the world when it comes to stage patter. What he lacks in apparent social confidence is made up for considerably in his talent as a musician, lyricist and conductor of some of the finest gothic rock material ever to come out of the movement, a curator of frozen pop gems and giddy heartbreak anthems. The Cure, for all its members, is driven by Smith and his angst-ridden melodies, and behind a microphone, he has not lost his touch for deft introspection and rousing melodrama.

Simon Gallup and Robert Smith of The Cure, live in
New Zealand, 2016. (Courtesy of thecuremexico).

The last time The Cure played mainland Britain, they turned out a trio of Christmas shows at London’s famed Hammersmith Apollo, each exceeding forty songs and three hours in length, an exquisitely crafted showcase of deep cuts and celebrated ditties that rewarded the hardcore follower. This outing – a positively breezy twenty-three song, two hour show – still takes time to tip its hat to the core fanbase, but otherwise skews towards the more casual devotee with the group cramming it full with some of their biggest hits.

Entering to Shake Dog Shake, taken from 1984’s The Top, Smith and company – including long-time bassist Simon Gallup, keyboardist Roger O’Donnell, drummer Jason Cooper and ex-Tin Machine guitarist Reeves Gabrels – are unsurprisingly tight after several years on the road together, but still find pleasing ways to freshen up compositions and performances. Flanked by a misshapen collection of amps and Reading F.C. flags, and backed by five horizontal strip screens, they experiment sonically across the multitude of genres that they encompass, embellishing A Night Like This with bluesy riffing and The Walk with disco-rhythm flourishes. On the relatively poppy Push, they take a heavier line, underpinned by swinging drums and a scuzzy lick or two from the fretboard.

The step back into arenas brings out hidden strengths to their performance, but also serves as an Achilles heel at points. The visual spectacle is impressive; during the springy In Between Days, the band are bathed in sharp, rainbow colours that gives the impression the normally dark-clad band have been involved in a paint factory explosion. Later on, for the punishing One Hundred Years, quick image flashes of the Somme, Auschwitz, Vietnam, Cambodia and Iraq – now all rendered in monochrome – appear behind the wall of noise the band creates, forming part of a hellish sensory overload.

At times however, the arena sound system undercuts what is a brilliant, thrilling show. During the beautiful, slinky lovelorn Pictures of You, Smith’s plaintive wail is buried under a messy mix that threatens to swallow him whole. On the driving Primary, Gallup’s bass blots out every other noise in the venue. But the band power through these technical gremlins to deliver some truly gorgeous renditions of Lovesong and Just Like Heaven, exquisite in presentation and reception. The warning shriek of Want is a high point, building to a noise-rock drenched crescendo, whilst Sinking, perhaps the rarest cut, culled from The Head on The Door, is a ghostly ethereal exercise in conjuring moody atmospherics, all echoing soundscapes that float on the breeze. It is gloriously gothic, superbly executed.

Robert Smith and Jason Cooper of The Cure, performing live at
Bestival in 2016. (Courtesy of Red Bull).

They return for a clutch of encores, which pivot from the bass-driven, post punk staple of A Forest to the rarer, industrial nihilism of Burn, their contribution to the soundtrack of The Crow. But it’s the final stretch that truly gets Manchester bouncing as they trade off the chiming, ethereal riff of Lullaby for the giddy, sun-kissed singalong of Friday I’m In Love, before backing it up with a bouncy rendition of early single Boys Don’t Cry. The sparse Close to Me is blown up by the mass singalong that erupts around it, whilst the high camp, joyous dance-pop of Why Can’t I Be You? releases a final wave of euphoria that lingers long after the lights come up. “Thank you,” Smith cries out, hand clutched to his heart. “We’ll be back.” Somehow, it seems unlikely there will be complaints if that’s anytime soon.

Feeder - Welsh Rockers Deliver Heavy, Genre-Straddling Comeback - O2 Ritz, Manchester, 03.10.16

There’s a point early on, twenty minutes into Feeder’s set at Manchester’s O2 Ritz, when frontman Grant Nicholas simply shouts “Pushing the Senses!” to the sold-out, 1,500-strong crowd. It’s not until he plucks the first notes of that iconic riff – embedded deeper into culture on the back of a Vauxhall advert some years ago – that it becomes apparent that this is not Pushing the Senses as we know it. Indeed, the nimble title track from the band’s 2005 album has been downtuned, transforming it from its light power-pop origins into a more foreboding, ferocious beast, that pummels the crowd with its pure wall of sound. Feeder have returned, but not as you’ve seen them in recent times.

Grant Nicholas of Feeder, performing at the Isle of Wight Festival
2016, in the Big Top. (Courtesy of Feeder.rocks.)

The duo of Nicholas and bassist Taka Hirose were, around the millennium, arguably Britain’s finest purveyors of pop metal. The furore over their 2005 headline appearance at Download, in hindsight, appears small-minded; these gentlemen, and their various drummers since the death of original Jon Lee in 2002, know how to rock, and rock hard. But Feeder haven’t particularly dabbled in truly hard music since 2001’s commercial breakthrough Echo Park, instead slowly conforming to a template of anthemic alt-rock pioneered by bands such as Coldplay in a post-Britpop world. Their genre shift is understandable – after all, most bands not called AC/DC do undergo stylistic changes -  but it’s been a while since you could call them remotely metal.

Nicholas and Hirose are out to change these preconceptions though. Their return from an unexpected hiatus has not made waves in the press or the charts – as perhaps is to be expected in the current music climate – but with a new album entitled All Bright Electric, the band are out to reconcile their origins as guitar-shredding riff men with their modern dimensions of a genre-straddling unit. For most of their ninety-five-minute-plus set, they do just that, throwing not just hook-heavy metal at the crowd, but also Beatlesque melodies, post-rock soundscapes, trippy-southern-gothic-pop and a touch of referential shoegaze for good measure. It’s eclectic and mostly works.

The biggest complaint to be made is about the setlist. They may have a record to promote, but with it yet to hit the shelves, it’s a ballsy call by the group to cull a third of their setlist from it. Some tracks are mesmerising, showcasing top-of-the-game songwriting, such as the moody opener Another Day on Earth; recent single Eskimo becomes a woozy psychedelic number that gives ways to the stoner-rock of QOTSA and The Dead Weather, all whiskey-drenched and devilish. Others, however, are rather unexciting; Geezer sounds like a mere pastiche of Geezer Butler’s lesser work, whilst Infrared-Ultraviolet feels like a painful, groaning chore. What makes it grating is their presence in place of other, older hits – no Comfort in Sound, Tumble and Fall or Borders. What should be concert staples are new material of varying quality, met with a mixed response.

Taka Hirose and Grant Nicholas of Feeder, with Chris Hill of Warrington
Wolves and Matty Smith of Wigan Warriors, at Old Trafford. (Courtesy of Feeder.)

But it can be forgiven for how tight and fresh they sound, particularly when recasting their older material. Accompanied by a drummer, rhythm guitarist and keyboard player, Nicholas and Hirose overcome a sometimes muddy sound mix to deliver stone-cold classics, played with a joyous passion. With lusty singalong Feeling a Moment perhaps their only classic hit not altered in some form, downtuning means that tracks such as Come Back Around and Insomnia sound more intense and visceral than they once did. Their most accomplished track Just the Way I’m Feeling suffers a little, its keening guitar lines lost underneath the chords – but when they tease out the intro to Buck Rogers through a shoegaze-haze, before restarting the bouncing power-pop anthem at full tilt, it’s impossible not to grin.

Before they finish, Feeder tease their next visit to Manchester – in front of a 70,000-plus crowd at Old Trafford for the Super League Grand Final between Warrington and Wigan on Saturday. If going by the reception they subsequently elicit with Just a Day, its bellowing chorus and bludgeoning riff deafening, Nicholas and Hirose need not worry about having to win over rugby fans. On the basis of tonight’s return, one thing is clear; Feeder the softly-spoken are dead. Long live the Feeder of old, resurrected in their loud, proud glory.

Andrew Steel

RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW - Snow Patrol - Happy, Messy Show from Post-Britpop Pin-Ups - Manchester Evening News Arena, Manchester, 03.02.12

Snow Patrol are only one song into their show at the Manchester Evening News Arena, and already, misfortune has befallen post-Britpop pin-up Gary Lightbody, though thankfully not of a particularly serious nature. “I just spent that entire first song with my flies undone,” he quips cheekily, a touch of self-deprecating embarrassment to his tone. “I hope you didn’t notice. If you did, ladies, I hope you enjoyed it.”

It’s a cheeky-chappie line perhaps more accustomed to the Robbie Williams brand of pop than, say, a Northern Irish six-piece whose commercial success is built upon a serious of soaring lovelorn ballads, all weepy lyrics and epic, lush arrangements. But it suits the cheery Lightbody, a man who seems possessed of not. Snow Patrol are touring behind 2011’s Fallen Empires – a stylistic left-turn into indietronica and power pop – and, judging by the near-sold-out crowd packed around the venue, are still the commercial juggernaut who dominated mid-noughties airwaves on both sides of the Atlantic with a cluster of genre-defining hits.

Snow Patrol perform live on their Fallen Empires Tour
in 2012. (Courtesy of livedesignonline.com)

No expense has been wasted on their stage show either; five large lighting rigs, shaped like eponymous snowflakes, hang from the rafters in front of a twenty-five-foot high curving LED screen upon which pulsing graphics of water drops periodically flash. Bathed in alternating icy blue, warm yellow and fiery orange, Snow Patrol enter to the shuddering electronic-bass of I’ll Never Let Go, and subsequently waste no time flying through a ninety-minute show in a happy, messy clutter.

Happy, because there’s a deftness of touch to the heavy, ponderous ballads and maximum-drive guitar anthems they populate their setlist with – recent cut New York lifts with a nuanced grace on flashes of lighter piano than on record, whilst the thumping alt-rock punch of Hands Open is rendered with a surprisingly laddish charm. Messy, as the band often lack musical sophistication; Crack the Shutters, for all its anthemics, is disorganised and muddied in its keyboard and guitar lines, both off the beat, though rousing regardless. And cluttered, for there are eleven – count it, eleven – players on stage; Lightbody, guitarists Nathan Connolly and Johnny McDaid, drummer Jonny Quinn, bassist Paul Wilson and keyboard player Tom Simpson are joined by five additional musicians, including two more guitarists and another drummer. It’s very Wall of Sound in principle; in execution, it sounds sometimes as everything and the kitchen sink has been thrown at the audience.

Gary Lightbody of Snow Patrol, performing live at Manchester
Evening News Arena in 2012. (Courtesy of Getty)

The mix isn’t terrible though, just overpoweringly primal in prolonged flashes. In fact, it works to the advantage of some songs; Fallen Empires is rendered as a sensory overload, all tribal rhythms that pound at the eardrums. Take Back the City struts with an urgent defiance, stirring and strident. Lightbody delivers a braveau vocal performance, that peaks with a spine-tingling rendition of their beautiful breakthrough power ballad Run, reclaimed from the hands of talent-show contestants with a hauntingly desperate cry. It’s arguably their strongest song of many; contrary to critical dismissal as a low-budget Coldplay, Snow Patrol have some superb songs in their catalogue and the admiration of fellow musicians such as Michael Stipe and Bono to boot. For relationship duet Set the Fire to the Fire Bar, he silkily harmonises with the backing vocalist over twinkling, star-strewn melodies, whilst the ubiquitous Chasing Cars is dispatched to a mass singalong chorus with the requisite élan.

Others have moments in the spotlight too; Connolly’s spiralling work on Chocolate is a highlight, whilst Wilson propels the melancholy In The End forward on driving bass. They close out their main set with the power-pop-rock of You’re All I Have, before returning for a three song encore that opens with their most serious misstep, the leaden drag of Lifening, an insipid ballad that floats on the album but sinks in the arena. They rescue momentum with panache though; the slow-build surge of Open Your Eyes notches up the tension before bursting into joyous, life-affirming melody. They roll out one final song – the floor-filling electropop of Just Say Yes, their singular dance anthem and party closer originally penned for Gwen Stefani. It’s loud, bubbly and a surprisingly tight performance. Snow Patrol clearly know how to play then; but with a touch of refinement, they could become all-time live greats.

Muse - Devonshire Trio Go Full Metal Floyd on Wagnerian Scale - Manchester Arena, Manchester, 08.04.16

Midway through their near-two-hour show at Manchester Arena, Muse vanish from their venue-spanning stage setup again whilst video footage of John F. Kennedy is projected over a series of descending banners, flung from the rafters to form a makeshift screen. It evokes a disturbing feeling, as the late president slowly enunciates the horrors of war and the shadows of treachery over a slowly rising guitar chug. Then, it erupts into the distinctive bass intro of the heavy, dirty swaggering Hysteria and 16,000 people leap to their feet in unison, hollering along.

Muse aren’t a band known for their subtleties. They return to this venue in support of a concept album, Drones, that trades in frontman Matt Bellamy’s favourite topics; conspiracies, corruption, and war, backed up by bombastic, gothic Wagnerian chords. OTT is their bread and butter. Before they even play a note, a choral mass of chanting vocals and churchy organ is piped in as glass spheres float ominously around, like see-through Christmas baubles. The stage is situated in the middle of the floor, a rotating circular behemoth with two walkways to platforms at opposite ends, vaguely resembling a TIE Fighter. The lack of Stonehenge is only because it’s been done before; Spinal Tap would nod approvingly.

Muse performing live at Manchester Arena,
2016. (Courtesy of Joel Goodman).

All this overblown excess – a U2 staging for the twenty-first century – would not hold the attention if Muse couldn’t cut it as a live band as well. Thankfully, the Devonshire trio are one of the finest in the business, an efficiently-drilled cohort who are as good as they’ve ever been. Despite this, their wall-of-sound approach to live performance lacks any bite initially. They open with the Roudhouse Blues-riffing roar of the violent Psycho and follow it up with the RATM-tinged Reapers that sees Bellamy’s guitar histrionics squeak and tremble in strange organic patterns – but neither feel as threatening as they really should. Clad in black, Bellamy and bassist Chris Wolstenholme preen and strut around, sneering as they deliver crunching blockbuster noises; but it lacks the genuine hostility or pantomime villainy that it would benefit from, no actual menace or knowing wink. Instead, it’s played straight and consequently suffers for a lack of fun.

They divert briefly into fan-favourite Bliss before delivering the electro-rock of Dead Inside and hi-def video game charge of The Handler, where Bellamy starts to come alive as graphics of puppet masters grapple with him as he prances down the walkway. Vocally, his elastic caterwauling is surprisingly unable to reach the notes he can on record – but when he shifts to his falsetto for the funk-laden Supermassive Black Hole, he hits his stride and suddenly Muse find their mojo, as touring keyboardist Morgan Nicholls dances wildly whilst the floating globes rotate like a neon-tinged planetarium. They follow rapidly with glittering pop song Starlight, as Wolstenholme pops giant, confetti-filled balloons with the end of his bass to cheers, and from there, they never let up.

Matt Bellamy of Muse, performing live at
Manchester Arena, 2016. (Courtesy of Joel Goodman).

Some tracks work better than others; the harsh, new prog of Time Is Running Out is sublime, whilst Bellamy vamps up the piano for a gorgeously frenzied-rendition of Feeling Good. The glam-stomp of Uprising feels underpowered by a lack of dual guitar work until halfway through, whilst Dominic Howard’s superb drumming on Map of the Problematique is lost somewhere underneath the rumbling bass in a sound mix that could have been a touch better. But on the whole, it’s superbly enjoyable as the band loosen up and enjoy themselves. They wander into ponderous, Orwellian territory for set-closer The Globalist; a sprawling ten-minute plus track that goes Full Metal Floyd, complete with an inflatable spy plane that recalls Roger Waters’ legendary pigs, but recover themselves nicely with a thrilling encore of Take a Bow and Mercy. As Wolstenholme picks out the notes to the theme from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly on harmonica, it gives way to the finally charging gallop of the Thin Lizzy-indebted Knights of Cydonia, the band at their ridiculously overblown best. Muse have reached a critical mass of prog-influenced soundscapes and thrilling theatre to easily stake a claim as the best live band in the world; if they played it more often with a sense of levity, they probably would be.

Weezer - Power Pop Stalwarts Hit The Sweet Spot - Manchester Academy, Manchester, 03.04.16

“Good evening,” bespectacled Weezer frontman Rivers Cuomo announces, after his band have delivered the strutting, nostalgia-tinged Back to the Shack with the force of a sledgehammer cracking a nut. “We are Weezer, from California.” He pauses, blinking owlishly, and twiddles with a string on his guitar, as if he’s somewhat abashed. “And you are Weezer fans from Manchester, UK,” he adds after a moment, to a rapturously loud reception, and a small smile quirks his lips fleetingly. “Let’s have a good time.”

Cuomo is not, at first glance, a typical rockstar. He cuts the figure of an eternally bookish student; even at 45, he still gives the impression of being an undergraduate as opposed to a member of one of alt-rock’s biggest bands of the past twenty years. Weezer’s self-titled debut cemented their place in the underground; their early-noughties output saw them conquer the mainstream. Yet he has never lost that outsider feeling; a man possessed by universal fears and anxieties in his lyrics, a relatable human figure with a gift on the fretboard and an ear for ridiculously good melodies.

Weezer performing live in Manchester in
2016. (Courtesy of thefourohfive.com)

Their show at Manchester’s spacious Academy is their first UK gig in five years, and corresponds with the release of their tenth album, and fourth self-titled effort (carrying the moniker of The White Album, after other colour-coded releases Blue, Green and Red). In concept a launch show for the record, it is rather a celebration of the catchy grunge-laden power pop that has been the musical focal point of their career since 1994, a breathless eighty-odd minute rush through a collection of songs that are synonymous with college-alt radio and heart-on-sleeve fun.

They don’t skimp on new material though; of their setlist, they cull a quarter from The White Album. Hailed as a return to form, it’s a batch of sun-kissed, lushly harmonious tracks that are received with as much enthusiasm as older material by the overjoyed audience. Opener California Kids is melancholy summer rock that floats breezily, an enchanting little ditty. Thank God for Girls is a riotous, seventies-esque piano stomp, with shades of Queen flamboyance. The brilliantly titled Do You Wanna Get High? is no stoner jam but instead a superb pop-rock gem, augmented by lashings of regal electric organ.

All this fleet-of-foot pop fun would fall flat in the hands of a lesser band but Weezer deliver a truly complete performance to elevate it superbly. Guitarist Brian Bell imbues the grunge-driven anxiety of jangly early cut My Name is Jonas with a speed-freak thrash and later sings Pinkerton-era B-side You Gave Your Love to Me Softly with pleading intensity. Scott Shriner, on bass, injects a delicious funk-palate that riffs on The Jam’s Town Called Malice during urgent hookup anthem (If You’re Wondering If I Want You To) I Want You To, whilst drummer Patrick Wilson delivers a pleasingly laid-back beat for emo cornerstone Say It Ain’t So that anchors it in an almost dreamy fashion.

Rivers Cuomo of Weezer, performing live in
Manchester in 2016. (Courtesy of thefourohfive.com)

Though not particularly extravagant, Cuomo is understandably the focal point of the group, and does not disappoint. During the creeping, crunching riff of Hash Pipe, he delivers an effortless metal falsetto that soars up and down with an edgy unease and emo anthem El Scorcho sees him conduct the crowd with miniscule nods. He pays tribute to local rock legends Oasis during Troublemaker, throwing in a snippet of Champagne Supernova during its scuzzy intro. He may not display his neurosis and eccentricities as much anymore; but Cuomo lets his skills do the talking, in an impressively self-assured display of musicianship.

All three click together superbly during instrumental number The Waste Land, all tremoring notes and moody atmospherics, and bring the house down with a delicately-strummed Undone – The Sweater Song that builds to a violently chaotic climax, as Cuomo and Bell raise their guitars aloft in a silent salute. They encore with the arena-glam-rock of Beverly Hills before bidding a final goodnight with a sweaty, raucous Buddy Holly that ignites Manchester into frenzied dancing. “We’ll be seeing you at Reading, Leeds, Glastonbury, at all your festivals!” Cuomo shouts, a small grin gracing his lips. There’s definitely a feeling that wherever they do end up, they’ll rock just as much there as here.

RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW - Bob Dylan and his Band - Grizzled Old Dog Can Still Pull Off the Odd Trick - Manchester Evening News Arena, Manchester, 10.10.11

“This is an old simple love song,” Bob Dylan murmurs softly into his microphone – or at least, that’s what it sounds like. He speaks in a low, quiet, languid tone, all sharp edges and gravel. The cavernous Manchester Evening News Arena seems an odd place for the seventy-year old Minnesotan, a monolithic structure more accustomed to hosting corporate pop shows than septuagenarians. But Dylan is no ordinary folk singer-songwriter; he is arguably the folk singer-songwriter, in addition to being the architect of a canon of songs enshrined in musical history. It’s difficult to think of another individual whose craft possesses such a far-reaching legacy.

Robert Zimmerman, as he is legally known, is making his biannual visit to the UK, as part of the latest leg of his Never Ending Tour (the name of his constant touring cycle since 1988 – tonight’s show is his two-thousand, three-hundred and fifty-eighth performance in twenty-four years). It’s not a solo show either; he is accompanied by former producer Mark Knopfler, perhaps better known as the frontman of eighties rock juggernauts Dire Straits, in the position of co-headliner. On paper, it’s a tantalising double-bill for fans of roots rock, electrified country and folky blues, and there is a clear mutual respect between the two artists, despite never sharing the stage.

Bob Dylan performs live in Milan in 2011.
(Courtesy of The Midnight Cafe)

Knopfler hasn’t been idle since the dissolution of his former band in 1995, with six albums to his name and the seventh, Privateering, due imminently. He chooses to eschew the bigger hits in his arsenal, instead settling for a rambunctious seventy-minute Celtic-rock ramble through his solo catalogue. He debuts two new songs – including his upcoming title-track, all sea-faring accordion and rattling acoustic guitars– and otherwise focuses on folk-stomp throwdowns like Why Aye Man and the delicately-strummed gems of Hill Farmer’s Blues. After an elongated rendition of grave-song Marbletown, he makes a concession to Dire Straits to finish, delivering a magnificently haunting Brothers in Arms, all poignant trembles and mournful guitar tones. It’s beautifully atmospheric, shiver-inducing and perfectly executed.

But Dylan is the main attraction, and after a short interval, he shuffles unassumingly onstage and takes up position behind an organ. Illuminated in warm shades of honey yellow, his brimmed hat casting shadows over his face, he looks exquisitely dapper, like the mysterious man at the end of a dive bar who doesn’t really belong there. Joined by a five-piece band, they rattle through a sleazed-up Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat and a jaunty take on old favourite Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright, augmented and beefed up on a bed of lap and pedal guitar.

Bob Dylan performs live at Bluesfest in 2011.
(Courtesy of  Torsten Blackwood)

There are obvious flaws though, and they’re pretty big. Arena sound is a refined art and years of touring theatres and outdoor venues across the world renders Dylan’s mix imperfect in the cavernous bowl. It echoes drearily on the quieter numbers, such as Tangled Up in Blue, and drowns out Dylan on Honest With Me. The latter is arguably a blessing in disguise; withered by time, Dylan’s once elastic whine has been reduced to a hoarse rasp that fails to wrap itself around the vocal lines of A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall and grizzles through Highway 61 Revisited with a flat, pained growl.

But sometimes it works unexpectedly well. That “old simple love song”, Simple Twist of Fate, sounds more careworn, more resigned, to touching effect under the plaintive imperfections. His band are superb too, in particular guitarist Charlie Sexton, who adds grit to the rolling Thunder on the Mountain. Dylan himself also performs ably; he hammers the keys with a surprising ferocity on set closer Ballad of a Thin Man, and improvises on Like a Rolling Stone, his vocal rising to a howl as he delivers kinetic blasts of organ. In this mode, his deficiencies suddenly don’t matter; he captivates his audience in a burst of animalistic snarling passion. They conclude with a crunching run through All Along the Watchtower, brutally recast in the vein of Hendrix, and with a quick wave, Dylan and band slip off as feedback fades into the background. He may be vocally spent, but The Voice of a Generation is an old dog who can still pull off the odd trick; when he does, it’s thrilling to watch.

a-ha - Cool Scandinavian Pop Still Ignites Warm Flames - Manchester Arena, Manchester, 25.03.16

About seventy-five minutes into a-ha’s show at Manchester Arena, there is the sound of gently-plucked acoustic strings echoing across the open space. Frontman Morten Harket looks out at the relatively intimate crowd gathered at the barrier and smiles coyly, a demure expression playing across his still-youthful visage. “There’s quite a lot of you out there,” he notes drily. “Let’s hear you.” He stands back from the microphone, and for a minute and a half, as the band play softly around him, four thousand voices carry the refrain of Hunting High and Low together, like a celestial chorus above hushed strings and low-key drums, eliciting shivers in breath-taking fashion.

It’s a staple of big pop-rock shows, to hand over vocal duties to the audience, but by no means does it diminish the effect. There had been raised eyebrows when, after a retirement of only five years, a-ha ventured out of Norway again, new album and tour in tow. But on a live circuit populated by nostalgia, it is hardly surprising. It helps that latest effort Cast In Steel is an impressive return to form for the Scandinavian new wave trio, reaching #8 in the UK and justifying their re-emergence onto the scene.

Morten Harket and Pål Waaktaar-Savoy of a-ha perform
live in 2010. (Courtesy of Youtube)

They lean lightly on new material though, at their first full UK show since they bid farewell in 2010. Instead, they stick to an impressive array of hits and fan favourites that span their entire thirty-year career. Entering to graphics of windswept roads, rendered in foreboding monochrome, they strike up with a strident run through I’ve Been Losing You and Cry Wolf, all strobe lighting and crunching guitar. Live, they pack a broader punch than on record, more urgent and weighty. Dressed in leather jacket and shades, Harket cuts an enigmatic figure to begin, leaving chirpy keyboardist Magne Furuholmen to introduce the four-piece backing band who accompany them, though after he swaps his glasses for a rectangular frameless pair, he takes on the air of a debonair Specsavers model.

Unfortunately, he suffers vocally early on, though his range is magnificent; during the sweeping icy synth-orchestral grandeur of Stay On Those Roads, he hits the highs with a graceful ease. It’s the power behind his voice that is Harket’s weakness; there isn’t any to start with. Hit Move to Memphis sees him trill tremulously over Edge-like guitar work, whilst We’re Looking for the Whales is hamstrung by a lack of clout. But he gradually improves; The Swing of Things sees him project finely over swelling strings, whilst Crying in the Rain sees him harmonise with his female backing vocalist with an elegiac strength.

Magne Furuholmen of a-ha performs live in
2016. (Courtesy of a-ha-live.com)

“We didn’t honestly expect to see you again so thank you for having us,” he states to cheers from the middle-aged collective of women near the front. All seem pleased to be on stage, even if Harket is more reserved than the others. Guitarist Pål Waaktaar-Savoy sports a grin every time he wrenches a bolt of noise from his guitar during the ominous, creeping Sycamore Leaves. Furuholmen looks even more excitable; during an acoustic version of Lifelines where he sings lead vocals, he flubs his second line and swears cheerily for the rest of the first verse, whilst during the urgent dance-rock of Foot of the Mountain, he dad-dances, throwing amusing shapes to the delight of onlookers.

Closing with the jittery synth-pop of Scoundrel Days, they return to encore with a pulsing, driving The Sun Always Shines On T.V., all clattering drums and snarling fretwork. They dial down for an acoustic take on new Radio 2-friendly single Under the Makeup, before leaving with the deliriously kitsch funk-pop of their James Bond theme The Living Daylights, its brass flares backed by graphics featuring silhouettes of scantily-clad women in a winking reference. They exit again, but the crowd remain on their feet, hollering, until the drum intro of Take On Me bursts into life, its euphoric keyboard riff signalling another mass-singalong. As Harket nails the high note to wild applause, there’s a tangible warmth to this mass act of musical communion. It seems, that after thirty years, this cool Scandinavian trio can still ignite the flames of excitement – and there are many only too happy to fan them higher.

Simple Plan - Happy-Go-Lucky Bubblegum Punks Possess Hidden Musical Depths - O2 Ritz Manchester, Manchester, 23.03.16

“Are you guys ready to party?” Simple Plan frontman Pierre Bouvier shouts at the crowd squeezed into Manchester’s O2 Ritz. Mainly consisting of flame-orange and neon-blue haired women in their early twenties, they scream back incoherently at the French-Canadian’s question. He grins and follows it up with a second query. “Are you ready to jump?” he asks, before the band behind him bounce into the deceptively ebullient suicide cry Jump, a song that goes as far as to lift its title from a Van Halen song that covers the exact same subject manner.

On the nose, definitely, but Simple Plan were never exactly renown for musical or lyrical subtlety. In their line of work, the heart-on-sleeve approach is the default setting; big, chunky riffs revolving around a collection of four chords and stories that probe the general teenage mindset; broken hearts, individualism, outsider status, the unfairness of life, of losers and freaks. It’s a tried-and-tested format, steeped in rock cliché before bubblegum punk took it as a template. Veterans of the scene, they are in Manchester touring behind their fifth record Taking One for the Team. On a stage decked out with senior-prom banners and white amps, they look comfortably at home, in this facsimile of American teenage fantasy; it weirdly suits them, and the eighty-five minute set of power-pop-emo they subsequently roll out.

Simple Plan performing live in 2016. (Courtesy of klapper.cz)

On the surface, it’s all a bit too familiar. Handclap drum beats, softer verses, anthemic choruses, on-stage jutting; they rattle through the textbook of pop punk tropes at an alarming speed. There’s the obligatory sex joke about old people. Bouvier introduces half the songs by dropping their titles into contrived anecdotes. Bassist David Desrosiers and guitarist Sebastian Lefebvre even trade instruments during one song. Unoriginal stage patter? Most certainly. But what elevates Simple Plan above their contemporaries in performance is the fact that they are a buoyantly joyous live force who possess hidden depths.

Their opening salvo of the surging pop-rock cut Jet Lag, the aforementioned Jump and old school throwback I’d Do Anything is a kinetic blast that sets the tone and pace for the rest of the evening, all three built upon drummer Chuck Comeau’s dynamic speed and sly fills. Seminal emo-pop anthem Welcome to My Life sees Derosiers delay his bass marginally, producing a neat John McVie-esque tick to the melody. A brief cover of Mark Ronson’s Uptown Funk allows lead guitarist Jeff Stinco to layer dirty chicken-scratch over the rhythm section in lizard-like fashion. The high point is the calypso-tinged Summer Paradise, the song furthest from their typical sound, all Hawaiian tones and reggae-edged hooks as the band boot inflatable beach balls into the crowd. Lyrically it’s much of the same; but they resonate strongly regardless. The band speak to-the-point on universal themes and never stray into puerile topic territory. Simple Plan understand and sympathise, but wrap it in three minutes of exuberant pop rock each time. It’s catharsis in its base form and highly effective fun.

Pierre Bouvier of Simple Plan, live in
2016. (Courtesy of klapper.cz)

Bouvier takes a few songs to ease into the show, but is vocally superb from the off. He defiantly encourages rebellion with a playful wink on The Rest of Us and sears through Crazy with an emotional intensity that prickles gooseflesh. He goes one better in the encore, invoking lighters for blunt-but-effective ballad This Song Saved My Life and leads off encore closer Perfect with an acoustic guitar. “There’s only one reason a band like us can still be around after fifteen years,” he speaks earnestly near the end. “And that’s you.” It may be a well-worn gesture to make; but in doing so, Bouvier brings himself that bit closer to his fans in acknowledging their everyday struggles.

That is perhaps the key to Simple Plan. Critics may snort and deride them, and pop punk, as an out-of-time musical fad that trades in cliché four-chords and lyrical trivialities – but they’re obviously not in touch with their younger side and thereby missing the point. Simple Plan speak to teenage generations in a timeless, accessible fashion; they connect with the “losers” and “freaks” and understand them, yet still have fun. There are no losers here; for a moment, everyone is a winner, and that’s something to celebrate.

The Kerrang! Tour ft. Sum 41 - Returning Pop Punk Heroes Deliver Dose of Daft Fun - Albert Hall, Manchester, 18.02.16

“Hello Manchester,” Sum 41 frontman and former pop-punk pin-up Deryck Whibley addresses the crowd in the city’s Albert Hall. “Sorry it’s taken us so goddamn long to get back.” To be precise, it’s been just under six years since the Canadian pop-punk outfit last stood under Mancunian skies, but for many, it feels a lifetime, not least Whibley. They were due in 2012 to headline that year’s iteration of this very jaunt, the Kerrang! Tour, only for the vocalist to injure his back and force a cancellation. Their topping of the bill four years later feels like a promise fulfilled and they return to a heroes’ welcome.

Sum 41 make their live return in 2015. Courtesy of Wikipedia.

The lower echelons of the current tour – the same slots that once delivered future rock heavyweights in the shape of Young Guns and Bring Me the Horizon – deliver seventies-indebted hard glam grooves in the enjoyable form of Biters who throw every clichéd shape in the book, and unintelligible pop-punk that is shouted into incomprehensibility by way of Eastbourne’s ROAM. For a tour that promises the best of up-and-coming rock, it all feels significantly lightweight.

This changes with the arrival of Frank Carter and the Rattlesnakes. The ex-Gallows frontman’s new band are in possession of an uproarious racket that blends menacing hardcore punk with classic rock swagger but Carter’s mercurial qualities as a performer elevate it beyond the call of duty. He sits the crowd down for what seems to be a twisted parody of childhood story-time; a rug-pull leads instead to the aching Beautiful Death, accompanied by solo electric guitar. There’s a bruised tender side to the Londoner that feels startlingly human when contrasted with his fiery rage and impulsive gestures – it endears him greatly, particularly when he flips back to the chief instigator of chaos.

Frank Carter, of Frank Carter and the Rattlesnakes, live in 2015. Courtesy of Gigwise.

“A guy just rolled across the floor like a f------ ninja,” he wittily quips at one point from his spot in the midst of the eye of a circle pit. Back on stage, he is gifted the sole of a shoe onstage to his surprise, minus the rest of the boot. His rambling diatribe on the lack of bras is remedied when the fur trimmed leather joins its rubber counterpart at the foot of his monitors. Thrillingly primeval, Carter threatens to steal the show from the headline act – and indeed does.

Whibley’s back injury marked the beginning of a rough few years for Sum 41, with the frontman suffering liver and kidney failure in 2014 due to alcoholism. Tabloid images showed a fragile husk of a man; the fact that the band survived to even return to the live stage is something to be celebrated in itself, though at first glance, it’s debatable how far Whibley has come on his path to recovery. Pale, gaunt and rake-thin, with an angular blond quiff of hair that recalls a younger Billy Idol, he thrashes his microphone stand round during ragged opener Over My Head (Better Off Dead), scattering a dozen or so toxic yellow guitar picks. The crowd feeds off his defiant posture, ecstatically throwing themselves around with careless abandon and hollering every word back loud enough during Motivation and The Hell Song to drown out Whibley’s occasionally tremulous vocals. Their brand of punk-power-pop is tried and tested, but is inclined to generate dopey smiles; at its core, it’s brilliantly daft fun.

Deryck Whibley of Sum 41, live in 2015. Courtesy of Getty Images.

So much of a band’s ability to connect relies on the frontman, and when Whibley is on form, there is a gleefully childish vigour about him that is both refreshing and reassuring to see, such as during a touchingly earnest Walking Disaster. But when his energy wanes, the rest of the band occasionally founder, particularly during a stretch of thrash-punk numbers when their vocalist vanishes for a break on occasion. Proceedings are not helped by a sound mix with the pitch set to waterlogged that quagmires tracks often. But the goodwill is physically palpable and a hurtling sprint through big hits Still Waiting, In Too Deep and Fat Lip, whilst messy, is deliriously received, earning a rare smile from Whibley that stretches across his drawn face. Carter may have delivered the showmanship; but Sum 41 delivered the old-fashioned fun, and there’s nothing wrong with that at all.

Fall Out Boy - Illinois Pop-Punkers Struggle with Their Identity - Phones4U Arena, Manchester, 17.03.14

Three songs into their performance at Manchester’s Phones4U Arena, Fall Out Boy are in the process of dispatching their biggest hit and arguable signature song This Ain’t a Scene (It’s an Arms Race) when they realise that no-one can actually hear it. Undeterred, frontman Patrick Stump shrugs and pulls out an acoustic guitar to perform rarity Chicago is So Two Years Ago unamplified, whilst bassist/bandleader Pete Wentz mugs cheekily for selfies with fans at the front of the crowd. It’s a pleasingly spontaneous moment in a show that often feels on-rails, lacking a maverick touch

Joe Trohman and Patrick Stump of Fall Out Boy
performing live in Manchester in 2014. (Credit to WENN.)

The Illinois fun-punk stalwarts’ comeback hasn’t gone unnoticed, or under the radar as such. Their return with Save Rock and Roll, crammed with glossy stadium-sized pop hooks, has been warmly received and their UK tour, a year on from release, feels more like a celebratory lap for the album and the hits. Opener The Phoenix, a ferocious jackhammer of a song, sets the tempo and the band barely let up for the next ninety minutes. It’s brash, melodramatic and for the most part, gloriously fun.

In spite of the pyrotechnics however, it feels quite arena-by-numbers at points. New track Death Valley is backed by hi-vis imagery of a desert basin, the excellent Alone Together is prefaced by a speech about “being individual” and the band even decamp to a b-stage for a “campfire moment with banjos” as they term it to perform early cut Grand Theft Autumn/Where Is Your Boy. FOB are tight, well-honed and great on the melody. But even with the ecstatic response to hits like Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down, a sense of banality and a lack of identity prevails, despite how riotously, shamelessly enjoyable it is.

Indeed, their weakest link, disarmingly, is Stump. A sufferer of stage fright, his interactions are understandably tokenistic, and the trilby-sporting singer often leaves the patter to the hyperactive Wentz. But he also struggles vocally, straining on A Little Less “Sixteen Candles”, A Little More “Touch Me”, and getting lost under the instrumentation during a roaring Beat It. He delivers some great lines – his impression of guest artist Elton John on Save Rock and Roll’s title track is hilariously spot on – and he is serviceable enough behind the microphone, but more often than not, the inconsistency is jarring.

Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy performing live in
Manchester in 2014. (Credit to WENN.)

The rest shine periodically – drummer Andy Hurley introduces Dance, Dance with a frantic drum solo, and guitarist Joe Trohman shreds hard on a thrilling Thnks fr th Mmrs – but it is Wentz who drives them towards a rousing finale. When they dispatch the electronica-rock of comeback single My Songs Know What You Did In the Dark (Light ‘Em Up), the singalong is both deafening and soaring in equal measure. By the time Wentz is fished out of the crowd following closer Saturday, it has gone past curfew. Few will complain. Fall Out Boy may have stepped into safer territory with their return; but there is still fun to be had in the ride alongside them to their new destination.