Essex’s The Meffs are clearly here to make the most of their first opportunity in an arena. The two-piece stands out on the bill not just because of their sound but also their youth and attitude. Lily and Lewis are evidently here to grab you by the throat and drag you into their world, and given the nature of the audience here, some go more readily than others. They have a political message, as “Stand Up, Speak Out”—on which they try to engender a singalong—rather underlines.
Their cover of the Prodigy’s “Breathe” backs up the idea that Liam’s boys were always a punk band, but possibly their best moment comes with “Wasted On Women,” their self-described “anti-hate anthem.”
The last one, “What?” is heavier than the others, not a million miles from hardcore punk—and having already opened for the likes of Frank Turner and with their own tour set for early in the new year, it does appear that the future is bright for The Meffs.
It has been a hallmark of Alice Cooper’s shows over the years—and MV has seen plenty—that he picks support bands that surprise. So it was the case this year when Primal Scream was announced for the job.
The surprises continue when Bobby Gillespie and the troops open the set with an unreleased song, “Love Insurrection,” from their forthcoming new album, invading territory that you would not expect. The flute solo had more than a hint of Jethro Tull.
“Ready To Go Home,” on the other hand, was full of what you might describe as their trademark Stones-like strut, while Gillespie himself compares “Deep Dark Waters” to Blue Öyster Cult, and who are we to argue with him?
“I’m Losing More Than I’ll Ever Have” is absolutely huge in scope, a proper big soulful ballad. Then, of course, there is the small matter of the hits. There are many. MV might not have spent time on the “acid house scene,” as the frontman puts it, but we are still familiar with “Loaded”—although however hard Gillespie works, there is no hope of the crowd participation he wants.
The similarly massive “Movin’ On Up” and “Country Girl” are anthemic—the indie floor fillers they always were—and everybody knows they’re going to end with “Rocks,” which even 30 years later, sounds as fresh as rock n roll ever has.
Incongruous, perhaps, but as so often, the pairing just about works.
There is a moment. It comes in the middle of “I’m Eighteen,” the fourth song in, when a man starts playing air guitar with the sword he’s been waving about, and the absolute truth is inescapable: Alice Cooper is back.
Every year, around this time of year, Alice and the band appear on arena stages, and every year you think: “Oh, it can’t be as good as last time,” and “I wish he’d play some different songs.”
And every year, Coop proves he’s the king.
Beginning with a shortened version of “Lock Me Up” and fair racing through the first six or seven, you are struck by just how many wonderful songs he possesses. “No More Mr. Nice Guy” is a sneering beauty still, and “Under My Wheels” drips with garage punk And “Bed Of Nails” takes you back to when you first heard it in 1989, and a love affair was born.
That is sort of the point. Everyone knows how this is going to go. That will be “Billion Dollar Babies”, the snake is out for “Snakebite”, and it will be glorious.
An odd surprise chucked in here and there. For one thing, MV had forgotten just how brilliant but how dumb “Lost in America” was—but largely it is business as usual, and as usual, business is good.
A huge “Hey Stoopid” marks the halfway point, allowing Coop a breather and Glen Sobel a drum solo, but the second half is just as breathless.
Indeed, it gets to the crux of the matter. “Cold Ethyl”, “Welcome To My Nightmare”, “Poison”, “Feed My Frankenstein”, and however many more pass in a blur before “Hurricane” Nita Strauss gets her chance.
And look, if you’ve seen Alice before, you know how this is going to go. He’s going to get arrested in “Ballad Of Dwight Fry”, beheaded before “I Love The Dead”, and come back to the pulpit for “Elected”, but does that make it any less fun? No. Of course, it doesn’t.
Then, in his encore of “School’s Out”, he finally addresses the audience. “Alice Cooper speaks to you!” he says before introducing the band, stabbing the big balloons with his sword. And all is well in the world.
As they wave their goodbyes, the song “I’m Alice” from his latest album is piped over the PA system—and he is. Where Vincent Furnier ends, Alice Cooper begins. They probably don’t even know anymore. And even if, with the passing of age, over the last couple of years, there has been noticeably fewer theatrics, then Alice Cooper is still arguably the greatest star on planet rock
