Tuesday, 08 July 2008
SCREAM FOR ME TWICKERS! Iron Maiden are like a metal Coldplay.
OK, hear me out on this one.
No one publically admits to liking The Maiden. Liking the Maiden was akin to holding up a flag and admitting you were that shy, spotty kid who tumbled dice, listen to 13 minute prog metal epics called “The Rime of The Anicent Mariner” and “Samuel Pepys Underpants Set Fire To London”, grew a ‘beard’ that was thinner than a supermodel, and you’d never actually spoken to a girl. Iron Maiden were the passport to an alternate world made solely of warring historical zombies with mental problems. The world was ugly, and Maiden were a reflection of it, a grotesque, silly parody armed with buzz saw guitars, an absurd world of their own making - albeit no more absurd than being a grown up.
Liking Iron Maiden was like saying “KICK ME”. But we were strong. For we had Metal for bones. Maiden were always there. They never betrayed you, or let you down. Put the needle on the record, shoot that Fokker, eat that flak, fly to the sky, never wonder why, TAILGUNNER!
But also, whilst the boys who didn’t like Maiden left behind such childish things as music and fun, Maiden fans become permanent, forever. Metal was in our bones, like Wolverine. We extend the hands, the Fingers Of Rock extend into the gesture of metal solidarity , and HAIL! They left behind their inner child. We never left that child behind. For rock is a religion, a way of life, and we merely toil day jobs to reach the next metal fix.
Whitesnake and Def Leppard? Mmmm. Tempting.
Maiden was for boys who weren’t men, who were terminally uncool, so uncool that they came out the other side as beyond such fads as fashion, cool, and became, perpetual, eternal, unstoppable, like a metal Terminator. They absolutely will not stop. Ever. Fashion is temporary, Iron Maiden is forever.
Rewind to 1992. 15 years in, the people who first saw Iron Maiden at 15 in 1977 were 30. 16 years hence, they’re nudging 50.
Iron Maiden are like an abrasive Rolling Stones. The Stones had a pair of alluring lips stolen from an art deco sofa. Maiden have a 20 foot robot lobotimised zombie on a crane. Eddie is probably as recognisable as Elvis. Here, all across the world, Maiden are some kind of ultimate placebo : a fantasy world here there are no such thing as women, men don’t have feelings, only an apocalyptic duty to go to war and everything is grotesquely painful. If life is painful anyway - and it is - let those in MaidenWorld at least have a pain of their own choosing.
Maybe, the Alpha Male universe of Iron Maiden is one where since there are no feelings, you can never hurt. Love does not exist in MaidenWorld. People are born by osmosis, fertilised like fish. Sex does not exist. Love? It’s a figment of books, for cattle, and women.
In 30 years, Iron Maiden have only released one love song : it’s called “Wasting Love” on the 1992 record, written by a band on the verge of collapse. It’s a shite song. In 30 years, Iron Maiden have played everywhere in the world - and yet, they’ve never actually played a stadium in the United Kingdom until now. So, on a sunny day in Twickenham, Maiden come home to bring their determinedly retro “Somewhere Back In Time” Tour to England. Six multimillionaires with offset hedge funds and their own islands rock like motherfuckers with their wonderful, baroque pantomime metal. Like Kiss, but a Kiss that actually don’t suck, like their own music, and aren’t fuelly solely by greed and a pension fund.
This tour, concentrating solely on their 1983-88 Stadium Prog Metal output, sees only one song since the collapse of Communism, and none written since Kurt Cobain killed himself. It really is a time machine to those dark times before the Internet. The train station is a lava flow of molten metal : with a 96% Iron Maiden T-shirt strike rate, the ancient cotton is exhumed - from original 1984 tour t-shirts to the modern, and rather expensive reprints, I would estimate that maybe 4% of the crowd aren’t showing their metal colours. These colours don’t run.
And, as I said, Maiden are the Metal Coldplay - and why? Because everyone loves them. From the enormous Mexican whose flown over and dons an enormous headress, to the diminutive 8 year olds who play furious air guitar until they play The Song From Guitar Hero, and switch, by muscle memory, to the Guitar Hero air button pushes, the entire stadium rocks like a memory made real.
As if an ancient bad movie villian were reformed from the eye of Horous to be flesh at massive size, the stadium comes alive with a roar. If this stadium had a spirit it would be the evil cackle of a bad guys plans finally come to fruition. MWA HA HA!
Bruce Bruce, Bomber Harris, Nicko McBrain, and the geetarists - all three of them in a Lynrd Skynrd smoke-and-mirrors bait-and-switch so only two of them are playing at any one time - create a dense, relentless wall of crunchy sound that decimates all comers with a punishing volume and a one-dimensional pantomime of macho posturing. If nothing else, whilst Maiden are as easy to parody as bad Gangster Rap, at least Maiden had an imagination beyond bitches and AK’s. Come to think of it, how come nobody has invented gangster metal yet?
From the opening galloping roll of “Aces High” and the sucker punch of “Two Minutes To Midnight”, to the three songs in 30 minutes middle section of “Rime Of The Ancient Mariner”, “Powerslave” and “Fear Of The Dark” (all songs I havent heard since 1993, yet know every word and guitar intonation of), it’s inevitable that The Maiden will conquer all in their path like some kind of invading army, greeted as returning heroes, liberating the oppressed English of 2008 from the oppressive Nazi regime of work. Maiden are liberators and oppressors : as unstoppable as an invading army, steamrolling over the oposition in a determined, religious conversion to the Gods Of Metal. There is no room for the non-believers in the Metal Tribe. One Of Us. One Of Us!
We were born to rock, yet we live in chains.
And being free to RAWK! Involves many things, including, but not limited to throwing cans of lager at people, pushing people around, grabbing hold of random passersby and telling them YOU! YOU FUCKING ROCK! MAN! And doing the Devil Sign in an imitating You-Are-Ordered-To-Rock fashion, and other stupidity.
At a certain point, I accept that part of the wages of sin involve being covered in airbone lager bombs. Not that it matters, for on stage, the mighty Maiden are uniting us all in an air-punching chorus of SIX! SIX! SIX! THE NUMBER OF THE BEAST! It’s the one for you and me.
And let us not forget when the fake pyramid cracks in two, and a forty foot crane monster shoots fire at the crowd. Or when the gigantic robot Eddie shadows the guitarists and makes wanker hand gestures at them as they curl off yet another, immaculate, screechy solo before Air Raid Siren Dickinson yells about being a fallen angel, a formless child watching you passing judgement on your soul that will be damned!
What else is left? Not much. Bruce runs the stage like a prime athelte, born again Christian drummer Nicko McBrain pounds the kit, and the rest of the band do the jumping spandex thing that makes me feel that it really is 1988, not 2008.
I remember debating buying an Iron Maiden bootleg CD from Bridge Records in Walsall. Packed as an historical artifact it declared “It Was 20 years Ago Today Iron Maiden Performed In Helsinki on August 12th 1988! Find This Ancient Recording Preserved For History On Compact Disc Audio Fidelity!!”
And here we are, history repeating itself. And some things have never changed. and I almost welcome that. Rock Hard, Rock Long, Rock Heavy.
Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you. A band called Iron Maiden were on stage, and they were awesome. Awesome in the way that leaves a twelve year old able to communicate only in stunned monosyllables. They rocked dude. They fucking rocked. And for two hours I was 17 again.
Now, if only I could get rid of that gnawing feeling of air guitar RSI.Only registered users can write comments.
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