No sweat for Idol as rocker whips up fan fever
Pop-punk legend’s showmanship shines out despite technical issues
Music
Billy Idol
O2 Academy, Glasgow
Jonathan Geddes
AFTER a few songs, Billy Idol declared that he was ready to “sweat and sweat”. Going by the crowd reaction, it seems likely a fair proportion of them would be eager to share this experience with him, and probably not simply through playing music. Age has not dimmed the 59-yearold’s allure, though not all of his songs have weathered the years so well.
Fever from the females in attendance (and possibly a few males) only increased when he whipped his top off before Flesh For Fantasy, the synth-heavy tune that has retained some charm, but Idol himself was a more captivating presence than the tunes.
He still resembles a comic book artist’s impression of a punk, oozing machismo with every step, and even launching autographed Frisbees into the crowd carried showmanship.
At points, it was cartoonish to the extent that you expected his eyes to bug out comically to accompany the countless fistpumps, but then Idol’s musical journey, from punk to teenage heartthrob always possessed that element.
His newest record, Kings And Queens Of The Underground, provided a few solid if unmemorable tracks, however the set was coated in 1980s nostalgia.
That was when anyone could hear it, of course. The gig’s start was delayed due to technical problems, and the sound was all over the place early on, particularly on extremely shaky renditions of Can’t Break Me Down and Cradle Of Love. Those flaws reoccurred from time to time in a lengthy set, while Generation X’s Ready Steady Go sufficed as evidence that they were never one of the great punk groups.
Idol always worked better as bravado-laden pop star, and the back catalogue delivered evidence of this – a rollicking Dancing With Myself, emotive ballad Eyes Without A Face and a White Wedding that went from pared-back opening to bolshy sing-a-long.
They countered more indulgent moments that dragged the pace down, with long-time associate Steve Stevens guilty of energysapping guitar histrionics. A Mony Mony cover, though, was a primal pop finale, soaked in sweat to the last.