Live Review: Motley Crue, Alice Cooper

Disappointingly, the Motley Crüe condoms have sold out at the merch stand.

Some opportunistic punters have occupied our seats, which makes for a confusing start to the night until ushers materialise with torches to set things straight. Alice Cooper is either ridiculously well-endowed or packing a lotta socks and parades around the stage in black-and-red strides while wielding a crutch, fencer’s foil or riding crop as befits each song. He directs the guitarists on and off the rostra like a grumpy headmaster of (cock) rock. Cooper may possess “a baby’s brain and an old man’s heart” as per I’m Eighteen lyrics, but that’s definitely not his age. Poison proves a perfect sing-along chastisement (“Don’t touch!”). Cooper provides many souvenir opps throughout his set, notably customised dollar notes (Billion Dollar Babies) and endless strands of Dirty Diamonds; Glen Sobel’s drum solo during the latter song almost too fast for our ears to process and we look to the stage expecting to see an octopus behind the kit.

Coop leaving the stage to let his band shine (and retrieve his cobra). His lyrical mastery (“Feed my libido/He’s a psycho”) emphasises our horror and everything is exceptionally well-rehearsed; Cooper knows exactly where to position himself so the green uplight only catches his face. No one is more committed to their performance, and it’s maximum shock value when his executioner gives Cooper’s beheaded head a tonguey. School’s Out, but this is timeless edutainment. (Mötley Crüe frontman Vince Neil later affectionately calls Cooper “that creepy little fucker”.)

The Cruecifly is in the building and we’re all ready to fly. It’s a miracle our four Saints Of Los Angeles still strut on mortal soil and Neil tells us the band has been around for 34 years, “which is three lifetimes in rock’n’roll”. Motley Crüe’s sleaze rock is capable of transforming nuns into strippers in a single riff. Too Fast For Love coils around our synapses and these memories will remain for years. Bassist Nikki Sixx stalks the stage, his bass racket penetrated. The Crüe’s homage to their influences include a masterful cover of Anarchy In The UK by Sex Pistols and a load of masked muthafuckers in prison uniforms drenching GA with super soakers.

O Fortuna intros Tommy Lee’s Cruecifly drum solo extravaganza. We notice two stagehands walking up high inspecting the tracks; the drum kit rises a couple of metres and then descends back to ground zero. Mick Mars commences his epic guitar solo, which no other guitarist in the world could nail. Were there technical difficulties with the Cruecifly this evening? We are gutted, so could only imagine how deflated Lee felt.     

This tour doesn’t feature the drummer’s Tit E Cam, but a few volunteers got their baps out for the lads anyhow as broadcast on the giant video screens for all to see. 

“Have you heard the news?” Girls, Girls, Girls is beyond awesome and, now that the Crüe are majority sober, they’re more technically proficient than ever.