Sat 11th September 2010
****Okey dokey, a brief review of the monolithic but massively, well, massive Muse. By popular request (Wor Lad).
I am Arrows, who apparently are a new project under the baton of the drummer from Razorlight. Anyway, they weren't bad. At all. A bit lost in the stadium but you could imagine them putting on a right old good show somewhere like The Water Rats or The Scala.
|The set. Or something like that.|
But the atmosphere started to build for 'mon the Biff and memories of the anodyne and eminently forgettable last lot soon evaporated like a rare gas.
The pit was now rammed. God had dimmed the autumn lights. Mumbles and a general hubbub of anticipation started to grow and grow.
The Biffy ones sauntered on, skinny troos, tattooed torsos and dyed blond face fuzz. And laid it on thick. A bombastic start with Golden Rule was greedily chugged by the thirsty throng.
|Neil. Arr harrr me old hearty|
In fact, bugger all.
The sound of silence
What is it with modern bands? Am I alone in feeling a little performed 'at' rather than to? Simon Neil didn't utter a word from inside his big old seadog yellow barbe. Not one word. I was even beginning to hope he'd descend into the clichéd old stuff; Hellooooo Wemberley....here's a song from the first album....But ho hum. Nothing was forthcoming. To be honest, it didn't really matter, as the show was a grand old grungy disco. Anyhoo, they came, they rocked, they shuffled off leaving a very happy, sweaty crowd hungry for the main event.
And event it was. I really will be brief. Massive stage set. Massive presence. Massive performance. Massive tunes. Massive guitar. Massive crowd.
They really can't put a foot wrong. The old favourites have never sounded better. Hell, even the newer 'Queeny' stuff is far heavier live and sounds more than passable.
They are massive. The are overblown. They aren't everybody's cup of tea; but at the risk of being über-clichéd, they are simply the very best at what they do. Ever.
So, quite why Mr Bellamy doesn't seem to be enjoying himself between tunes is beyond me. The world loves him. They love his band. Surely he loves them? But he does the cold fish thing. Time and time again. No flicker, no banter, no cajoling or carousing. He certainly is no Benjie Webbe from Skindred (who has to be the best frontman in the universe). Dom did do some talking. But not a lot. They are magnificent. But don't look comfortable in their own shoes. Especially in front of 90,000 adoring, moshing acolytes. Which is a shame. But only a minor shame.
Epic. Truly epic.
Don't know what the hell they can do next to top this. Maybe a pub tour?