“Okay, you motherfuckers, hold on to your SCROTUMS!” With these immortal words by a Detroit blue-rocker and complete headjob, we began our day at the Milton Keynes Bowl on Saturday, willing participants in the circus of 80’s and 90’s hard rock madness that was Monsters of Rock. The Rock Star and I spent the drive up to MK blessing the absolutely stunning weather that was smiling down on our day out of doors.
Our blessing was doubled when we managed, against every rule of rock concerts, to park cheaply (£5) right next to the venue, where we were instantly hit up for more cash by wandering yoga instructors, who we paid 2 more quid to go away. (We got a book about yoga out of the bargain, but I doubt that it will offer 2 pounds worth of enlightenment.) The Milton Keyes Bowl is a fantastic outdoor venue.
For anyone who’s never been, it’s basically a Roman amphitheatre without the seats. The slopes of the Bowl are ideal for picnicking and kicking back on blankets without having your face in direct contact with some other concert goers feet- LOADS of space. MoR, however, which mercifully only boasted around 30 to 40,000 patrons, doesn’t have quite the draw of larger acts that will be performing there later in the summer, so I’m not sure if my impression of spaciousness would carry over onto another gig.
As we entered, the warm up act, Roadstar, were just beginning their set. Warming up a crowd that has ultimately come to see Alice Cooper and Deep Purple is what I imagine to be a daunting task, but these guys did a fairly decent job of it. While I admit to being slightly more interested in not dropping a load of Chinese noodles down my cleavage at the time, they were certainly a good prelude to the next performer on the bill.
Some of the Rock Star’s UKMG compatriots made the trek down from their various hamlets and burgs to join us and wish my boy a happy birthday as well as spend a day in the sunshine. They all arrived just in time for Ted Nugent. I have heard of Ted Nugent, but was always under the impression that he was a country act of some sort.
In one manner of speaking, I suppose he is THE ultimate country act- obviously from the part of the country where you get a lot of kids born with webbed feet. Although his music was actually rather listenable, “Uncle Ted” has a propensity towards stage rantings that were largely incomprehensible from our vantage point on the hill of the Bowl, but while the words that made any sense seemed to be snatched away by the light breeze, we were treated to a veritable banquet of imaginative and humorous curse words. Although his right wing political views occasionally made it to us intact, in strangely and loudly punctuated phrases like: “The US and Britain are GOOD FRIENDS!
You know WHY? BeCAUSE we stand UP to ASSHOLES! ALWAYS stand UP to ASSHOLES!
” We didn’t abandon our hilly vantage point until after Queenryche had left the stage, taking their dreary blend of emo and metal with them. (though Trev assures me that they had a decent album called back in the 80’s) We left our belongings in the care of the UKMGers to join the crowd down in front to see Thunder, who the Rock Star introduced me to in college. Besides being an incredibly tight band, the lead singer has a voice that can just knock shit off walls; absolutely brilliant.
The fact that he looks like a mailman rather than a rock star was unphasing- seeing as how most of the bands on the bill had their haydays in the 70’s, it was hardly surprising that most of them now look more like someone’s dad playing dress up. Journey is one of those bands that you hear on the radio and go, “Oh THAT’s Journey.” The Rock Star and I collapsed back up on the hill after a visit to the ludicrously expensive Watered-Down Beer Tent.
Concerts always afford some of the best people watching opportunities you’re ever likely to have, and we indulged our voyeuristic impulses to our heart’s content. Hairstyles of the Apocalypse (which, by the way, would be a great name for a band) bloomed from heads all around us. Axl Rose look-alikes lounged nonchalantly on blankets, blinking lazily at the world from behind oversized Aviator shades.
And tattoos of every size, shape and color snaked their way around arms, legs and backs. Next up was our primary reason for buying the tickets in the first place. (although he might have blanched slightly at the fake decapitations) It’s easy to forget that behind the riding crop and eye make-up is a late 50-something conservative, pro-Bush republican, born-again Christian called Vince who likes playing golf with Michael Douglas in the kind of checkered pants you finally made your dad give to a charity shop back in the 80’s, because he kept wearing them to parent’s nights at school.
It certainly doesn’t make much of a difference when he struts out on stage clad in tight leather trousers with python accessory and flings fake blood all over the waiting audience, who receive it as a direct offering from the Holy Spirit. He’s the horror movie where you don’t have to hide your eyes- gleefully doling out death and savagery with a shit-eating grin and being adored for it. I have to admit to not being much of a Cooper connesseur.
I could probably name 5 or six of his songs off the top of my head, but most of the set was a complete mystery to me. But you don’t go to see Alice Cooper for his singing, which is fairly mediochre, you go for the spectacle. I imagine that when he performs alone, the sets are larger, the buckets of blood more voluminous, but he pulled out as many stops for a short set as possible.
Totally my favourite act of the day. We’re so not worthy. Daylight began to fade over the bowl and it became apparent that the sunblock the Rock Star and I had been dutifully slathering on all day had expired some months before.
The very small mirror on the inside of the port-a-loo confirmed that I was indeed a crispy critter. The Rock Star, having donned festive, rawk bandana, realized that he was now stuck with said bandana for the foreseeable future due to the pasty white line now donning his forehead. Feeling slightly toasty, we chucked on sweatshirts as the sun started to set and treated ourselves to another beer as Deep Purple took to the stage to finish off the evening.
Other than “Smoke on the Water” I wouldn’t be able to name another song by the band if my life depended on it, but their playing was first rate; particularly lead guitarist Steven Morse, who had some serious chops. The lead singer also suffered from mailman syndrome, but could still belt it out, so could be forgiven. A lovely, chilled end to a fabulous day.
The gods of Rock were with us that evening as the last chord was played; we were on the right side of the stage for a hasty exit to the car park and most unbelievably, 5 minutes after bidding the UKMG brigade goodbye, we were moving at 70mph on the open highway rather than sitting miserably in a long queue of our fellow sunburnt concert goers. That never happens right? Am I right in thinking that never happens?
Sitting on our very on couch, having a cup of tea at 11.30 pm we slathered ourselves in AfterSun and reflected on a day well spent. Filed under: Rock Roll, Music by galetea | Comments (3) The Music of Unity Despite efforts to unify Europe in matters of trade and international law, we are constantly reminded of the vast differences between the myriad of cultures that are compressed within its borders.
What works in Italy is not necessarily going to work in Bulgaria. Spain and Turkey have different ideas about what to do on a Saturday night and what to eat for Sunday lunch. But apparently what everyone can agree on is what rocks.
I’m not entirely sure if most of America is aware of the Eurovision Song Contest. I know that I’d never encountered any mention of it before I moved to Britain. In fact, the first time I saw it, I had to turn it off because it was just too damn depressing.
However, due to what I believe to be assimilation by the European Borg hive mind, I find myself drawn to the damn thing every year when it rears it’s ugly, sparkly head on the telly. I would be interested to know how the contest is perceived in other European countries, considering the utter contempt in which it’s held in the UK. Do people in the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia (a country that’s long overdue for a name change, in my humble opinion.
I’m fairly sure map makers and those guys who have to print the signs for the opening ceremonies at the Olympics would agree with me.) see their entry into this musical farce (Elena Risteska, singing “Ninanajna”) as a matter of national pride or a sacrificial lamb to be slaughtered in the tabloids upon their return? I’ve always seen the contest as a “who sucks the least?
” kind of affair, but we were all rewarded by Finland’s entry this year, who, while awful, stood out in a crowd of off-key poptarts and gave everyone a bit of a laugh with their Gwar-like antics. Never ever having been moved to vote before, The Rock Star and I dutifully texted in to support the minions of rock among the sea of pap. We were astonished to find that even the in-country voting, which is glaringly political, seemed to fall in line as well, everyone stumping for the Nordic monsters.
It just goes to show that bad rock will always triumph over mediochre pop. Go, my children, go pay homage to Lordi. Filed under: Weird Stuff, Rock Roll, Music by galetea | Comments (8) “Okay, you motherfuckers, hold on to your SCROTUMS!
News RSS