I got to Rock City about an hour and a half before the doors were due to open, and sat on the steps outside at the back of the fledgling queue. The loud, grating, pig-ignorant Brummie bitch behind me made me regret leaving my iPod at the hotel. I just tried to tune her out, and concentrated instead on reading The Times while tearing apart a particularly flaky almond croissant, and washing it down with several small bottles of Bailey’s. It wasn’t working, and I was on the verge of offering her cash to shut the fuck up, when Scotti walked past.
He saw me, stopped, and asked how I was doing. I gave him a typically lame response, and as he walked off, I sat there thinking once, just once, I’d like to say something witty or amusing to him. Or at least not seem quite so much like a stupidly-shy 16-year old. Ho hum. (And I’m still not sure if he meant to imply I was an alcoholic, or if it was just my guilty conscience).
One of the things I always loved about Rock City was their security. They were still as cool and helpful as ever. Before the doors opened, I asked the muscle-bound bloke outside if it was OK to take a camera in. Since the band have fans’ photo’s on their website, I know it is... but I want clarification instead of a hard time on the door. Instead of getting a gruff, unhelpful response, he actually went and checked. Contrast this with the brain-dead pricks at places like Brixton (and Wembley... and Manchester...) Anyway, it’s amazing what a difference it can make to your night out!
On the flip-side, the worst thing about Rock City was their reputation for watering down any alcohol that wasn’t sealed and bottled. After knocking back several over-priced triples, I suspected they were still doing it. However, I’m really shallow, and the barman was cute... so I was prepared to forgive them (at least this time...)
After the first, heavy-as-fuck support band walked off stage, all I could think was, “wow, thank you... I’m now deaf!” I didn’t catch their name, but it sounded much like “heeeeaaaoonnn” with some indistinguishable consonant thrown in the middle for good measure. I’m not sure why, but they also did something with a mallet. As the muscle-bound lead singer smashed up an old VCR, I didn't get it, but I was sure it must have been deeply symbolic.
Second up was Jeff Scott Soto. Apparently, he’d been booked to play a smaller room at Rock City, but after Skid Row announced, the management combined the shows. The band was tight, and Jeff was kind of cute, but he knew it; I got the impression he’d spent way too many years practicing those pelvic thrusts in the mirror.
They started out playing their own songs, which had a funky, rock vibe. They then moved onto a slick series of funk and disco cover versions. A dubious highlight was their rendition of The Village People’s Macho Man, something I never expected to hear at a Skid Row gig. Anyway, maybe it’s a sign that things have changed, but they were applauded, and not bottled off the stage (and yes, I was singing along...)
Normally, the changeover between bands can be rather dull... Not with Skid Row. I’ve seen one or two good-looking roadies before, but watching their current crew makes time just fly. I know one is potentially a bit of a prick (long story, on which it may not be entirely fair to judge him), but their cute-as-fuck tour manager makes for one hell of a distraction, and has the kind of hair most women would die for. (He's the blonde in the back, by the way - apparently sitting next to a headless, white-vested torso... very strange!)
Anyway, The Ramones were cranked up as the house lights dimmed, and the crowd went wild as the band came on stage and launched into their set. Within moments, I was lost in the music, singing my heart out with a huge smile on my face.
Then I was suddenly distracted. I looked across the stage, and thought “OK... that’s not Snake.” Earlier, when I’d seen Scotti, he’d been walking down the street with an unfeasibly cute, ultra cool-looking guy. I assumed it’d had been their new drummer, but was in fact their substitute guitarist. They later said Snake was in rehab., and I thought “hmmm... now there’s a surprise,” but apparently he’s suffering from some type of RSI-type problem with his wrist. Poor bastard.
The sound could have been better... Instrumentally, the band sounded fantastic, but Johnny’s vocals were way too low. Not that it really mattered: I know most of the lyrics, and live Skid Row karaoke is kind of fun!
I took some photo’s, but the light wasn’t great, and I’m not too fond of using the flash in venues... partly ‘cause I’ve never found out quite how annoying it is for the artist, but also you just lose any atmosphere you may have had.
But anyway... Here’s Johnny:
The gig was fantastic, and by the end, I was hot, sweaty, bruised and half deaf. By the time I left Rock City, I was sober enough to find my way back to the hotel, but still drunk enough to think that buying a re-heated chicken kebab from a fast food shop that sells a “McKurd” was a good idea. Fortunately (or perhaps miraculously), I didn’t get food poisoning.
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