METALLICA GHOST/BOKASSA
TWICKENHAM STADIUM, TWICKENHAM Bay Area’s metal kings run roughshod over rugby HQ
Stadium ShowS are obviously a magnificent way to experience your favourite artists in the biggest possible setting, with a grand spectacle to match. But they’re not without problems. Most are an arse to get to, attaining great sound in every corner of the venue is rarely possible without sorcery and you are at the mercy of the weather. While the rain stays away, the former are definite talking points following Metallica’s first gig at the home of English rugby union. Those criticising the whole endeavour needn’t be too concerned, as the realisation continues to dawn that once the Bay Area demigods, AC/DC and Iron Maiden hang up their guitars, such occasions will surely become even rarer for our world.
The final snag befalls the support acts, having to play to what seems like no one at 5.15pm when most people are queuing for merch and food. But that doesn’t seem to dampen BoKaSSa’s mood, with the Norwegians furiously tearing into their yobbish brand of hardcore. The riffs are huge, the energy is infectious and Jørn Kaarstad does a much more convincing cockney accent than Dick Van Dyke as he channels the spirit of a Victorian chimney sweep.
It’s still a sparse outlook as Cardinal Copia and his Ghouls strut out to the emphatic bluster of Rats and Absolution. Cramming a lot of their ceremonial stageshow into a limited space, GhoSt treat the congregation to a hedonistic Satanic party and act like the entire vicinity belongs to them. The setlist is impeccable, with Copia insistent on wiggling bums and tickling taints as the likes of Dance Macabre, Cirice, Year Zero and Square Hammer all stir that demon on the shoulder. It’s another performance that pushes the limits of the ludicrous, yet feels more and more vital every time it’s witnessed.
Though the gigantic M and A flanking the stage look like a ham-fisted Airfix, you can’t deny metaLLiCa’s ability to put on a gargantuan show with all the bells, whistles and, yes, fire. Even the absurdity of two giant branded balloons inflating during the breakneck opening of Hardwired seem to work, before huge jets of flame usher in an unbeatable run of classics. For a stadium more used to a funereal national anthem and an appropriated slave hymn, to hear the crowd in full voice during The Memory Remains and a gorgeous The Unforgiven is something special, while James Hetfield is so busy enjoying himself with the lucky dozens in the Snake Pit that he fluffs part of Ride The Lightning.
Though his output may sit low in the mix, and his motivational speaking subdued, the frontman’s ability to lead hordes to do his bidding is unequalled, shaking the foundations with Sad But True before an orchestral track ignites rapturous scenes as people realise S&M’s No Leaf Clover is to get an airing. It’s an inspired inclusion, which can’t be said for the entire set. Here Comes Revenge is one of Hardwired…’s weaker tracks, with the response paling to the following Moth Into Flame, while later on Lords Of Summer puffs out a lot of hot air without going anywhere. Worst of all is Rob Trujillo and Kirk Hammett’s nowstandard jam through a local delicacy. At its best an amusing waste of time, tonight it’s an embarrassing mess, with the pair’s doodling through Maiden’s Killers not even salvaged by Rob paying homage to Cliff Burton with the bassline from Orion. What it does do is ensure that the subsequent Frantic is greeted like a lost holy relic. Messy interludes aside, the rest of the set shows Metallica at their best: Creeping Death and Master Of Puppets’ clinical prowess, the unruly rampancy of Seek & Destroy and the haunting melodies of One that never lose their potency.
Yes, more intimate venues are often where metal’s impact is at its best, but bands like Metallica are too omnipresent to exist in anything less than the grandest environments. As mobiles light up the stands for Nothing Else Matters and half of China’s fireworks signal the end of Enter Sandman, it’s a reminder that these occasions must be celebrated for the excessive spectacles they are. You never know how many more there’ll be.