It transpires that the Great British Classic Rock revival has found a fresh stream of inspiration to draw from. The dense 70’s blues rock of Free and vintage Quo, has been abandoned in favour of pillaging the fertile vineyards of eighties hair metal. For South of Salem, it provides a veritable smorgasbord of stimulation and they are meticulous in their level of imitation. Their second track in is so shrouded in familiarity, that if you close your eyes, its’s 1982, you’re in the whiskey a go-go and Mötley Crüe are treading the boards in their moment of ascendancy. 

If I’m honest I’m torn with South of Salem. There is nothing new here and this jaded hack has heard it all before. They even look like caricatures from the I-spy book of rock stars. However, and there is a large however. They do what they do incredibly well. Yes, its derivative and generic, but its immaculately presented. They have flare, they have charisma, and they have a veritable arsenal of tunes. You may be able to sing the words to most of the Crüe’s back catalogue to those tunes, but that doesn’t stop them being catchy as hell.

For all the “tonight Mathew, we are going to be Faster Pussycat” vibes there is still a massive genuality to what they are doing. They are at the stage in their career where the humility is still intact, and they seem genuine in both their happiness to be on this tour and their utter amazement at the reaction they receive. You can hear the sheer joy in Joey Draper’s south coast drawl as he orchestras the many pieces of stage managed audience participation. Everything is still new and enticing to them and that level of ecstatic joy is infectious. So, whilst they may have as much originality as an own brand box of frosted flakes, there is still something alluring and tantalising about them and their adrenaline fuelled performance.

“Welcome to the Opening Night” drawls Blackie Lawless as he looms over his monstrous microphone stand (known chaologically as Elvis). You see their much anticipated, and infinitely delayed European tour kicks off here in little old Manchester. The North West’s ageing rockers are out in the force and the expectation of a show that promises to go back to the beginning means that the Sold-Out signs are on for all but two shows on their jaunt around these fair isles. Not bad for a band that have been written off on more than one occasion. 

Tonight, is all about revelling in the past and the ghost of eighties W.A.S.P. casts its formidable shadow over the whole show both in intent and actuality. From '‘L.O.V.E Machine’ onwards the screen behind the band displays the vintage videos from the retrospective tracks in their tacky, chauvinistic eighties glory. Like Banquo at the Banquet, the youthful thirty-year-old Blackie Lawless looms large over his now 66-year-old self.

If it is discombobulating to have your past leering predominately over your shoulder, then Blackie does not show it. He leans into this rampant celebration of his former glories and seems content to return to places he had previously sworn to not revisit. We get MOST of ‘Animal (Fuck like a Beast)’ a song he had pledged to never play again. Though to be honest he stays away from its offensive refrain and instead lets the audience scream it back at him.

There is a slight fly (or WASP) in the ointment, and it pains me to say that it is my beloved “Crimson Idol”.  It is, in my humblest of opinions, one of the greatest records ever made. However, the inclusion of mid-section celebration of its thirtieth anniversary serves only to slow down the momentum of the evening. In a scant ten song set (yes to be fair one was a melody) with a generous dollop of filler, the inclusion of ’Great Misconception of Me’, ‘Chainsaw Charlie (Murders in the New Morgue)’ and ‘The Idol’ makes up over a third of the allotted time. Yes, the latter is a stunning piece of high concept orchestral prog that will be played at my funeral, but at almost nine minutes long the shuffling feet of those who had come for the big dumb fun of the first four albums is evident. 

The party vibe returns with the aforementioned ‘Chainsaw Charlie’ and hits stratospheric proportions with ‘Blind in Texas’. For all its outsider aesthetic and anti-social posturing, Heavy Metal is about pure entertainment and W.A.S.P. provide that entertainment in spades. This is metal at its most ludicrous, must lewd and most outrageously fun. There is an evident reliance on backing tracks, but to be honest nobody packed into the Academy cares. They have come to drink beer and scream along to the songs that defined their dim and distant teens and early twenties. The band is there merely to facilitate this exercise in nostalgic joy, and it is a function that W.A.S.P. fulfils admirably.

Whilst , in places, unevenly paced this is still a fabulous celebration of one of metal’s most under-rated revolutionaries. There is an overall cathartic feeling of putting the past to bed and the inclusion of a pictorial role call of all that have served with Mr. Lawless feels both generous and poignant (though I for one feel that it is missing the words “you have been watching” and the Dad’s Army theme).

However, W.A.S.P is Blackie Lawless and Blackie Lawless is W.A.S.P and his heartfelt testimonies to the crowd feel honest and uncharacteristically candid. He may leave his band to do the musical heavy lifting, but he still oozes charisma and burns off the stage. He ends the show perched on top of Elvis, proving himself to be far more stubble than the average sixty-six-year-old. So, three years of patient waiting proves to be worth it as W.A.S.P. illustrate that they are still the last word in potty-mouthed entertainment and the perfect accompaniment for a night of drunken hedonistic nostalgic revelry.

Check the “In The Flesh” page for more photos!

W.A.S.P., South Of Salem