Live Review: Guns N'Roses, ZZ Top & Rose Tattoo

It's testament to Guns N' Roses' lingering mass appeal that they can not only get Rose Tattoo to prop up the bill, but also have them finish their set a mere half hour after the doors have opened. The veterans belted out a spirited set to almost no one as the reliably rousing We Can't Be Beaten echoed round a mostly empty arena.

Duked out in their glittery suits and cowboy hats, ZZ Top reminded the crowd that while The Black Keys might be on top of the blues-rock roost now, they ain't done nothing that the Top didn't do first – or with half the showmanship. A number of obstacles prevent ZZT receiving their long overdue cred; overwhelming success, a sense of fun and most obviously the beards. Nonetheless, there was barely a soul present who wasn't enslaved to their electrified delta-rock boogie, as a '70s-dominated set was exemplified by the freewheeling Tush, La Grange and the compellingly sludgy sound of Billy Gibbons' six string as he peeled off one million dollar riff after the other. By the end, the 10,000 present were more than willing to accept Gibbons' offer for them to “stay here all night and get some barbecue”.

Despite Axl Rose being the sole remaining original member of Guns N' Roses, expectations were high, especially when the opening riff to Welcome to the Jungle rippled through air. Disappointment then reigned as the sole original gunner spent numerous long breaks offstage while his latest employees jammed out their Guitar Hero fantasies to an increasingly frustrated mob, many of whom could be seen listlessly scrolling through Facebook. Seemingly the main selection criterion for all three GN'R's guitarists was the ability to shred unceasingly while a wind machine playfully tossed their immaculately arranged Vidal Sassoon hairdos. It certainly wasn't a shared chemistry with other so called bandmates. “Not sticking around for this shit,” a burly miner type pushing past me grumbled. “Grow some balls and play the real song,” a woman behind me opined. Right on cue, Sweet Child O' Mine sprang to life and fleetingly it seemed all might be well again. If only Axl had taken the hint. Next time he wants to parade around a shaggy bunch of Californian posers, just tell him take the name Guns N' Roses off the bill before he hoovers up our money.