Leapin’ Leppards!

Three of them, anyway - Rick Allen on drums.
Sav on bass, and shirtless (as usual) Phil Collen

What do you get when you take a vintage muscle car, tune up the carburetor, spiff up the paint, and re-chrome the hardware?

Fast, loud and flashy.

This was Friday night’s Def Leppard show in three words.

Fast – they powered through ninety minutes of their heyday radio hits with nary a pause for breath. With their catalogue, I thought they could have gone longer, but Ter pointed out that Viv Campbell is recently out of cancer treatment and they have to be mindful of him. Good point. Though the perennial “new guy” guitarist gave no sign of flagging, he wasn’t racing all over the stage, either. That said, I expected ninety minutes and I got ninety minutes. They play so many festivals and double-bills that they don’t give any more than that. Sucks, but really, my hearing wouldn’t survive a longer set. Which brings me to …

Loud – everyone asks if I bring earplugs and I always say no. I don’t wear them. It’s stupid, but my byline is that if I’m going to lose my hearing, I want it to be by a rock band. The loudest band I have ever heard live is the Leppard. The Police were close, Aerosmith was so long ago that I don’t remember if my ears buzzed afterward though they must have done, and everyone else either has a better sound crew or cares more that every note be heard. With the Leps, I’m fuzzy right out of the gate. They don’t need to crank it up so high, except that they are a rock band, dammit and if the concert can’t be heard pounding halfway across town (which this one apparently was), they’re not the genuine article. This makes it an unlikely bonus that they play no new material, since if I can’t hear the riff through the fuzz, I won’t know what they’re playing and will be entirely lost. The hits are part of my mental muscle; I can sing along – at the top of my lungs, by the way – and know where I am because the beat is a well-worn one.

Flashy – their time in Vegas has served them well. The boys were fans of 70s glam bands as well as the industrial rockers of their youth, so they’ve always been glitzy in a fashionably rough manner. Their light shows have been pretty standard, but this time out was dazzling. Loads of track, spot and whatever lights in every colour of the rainbow. Add the three big video screens and you’ve got visual pandemonium in support of the aural assault. The band themselves are lookers who know how to dress, but you have got to love Rick Savage. Ever the stylish one, he showed up for the encore in a shirt that proclaimed I Am So Fucking Disco and I doubt anyone would challenge him on it. He’s no tough guy, but he’ll stand his ground with conviction. Word is that he’s even gone head to head with the King and won his way.

As for the King himself, thank the gods that Joe will never change. He struts like a conquering hero. He can silence the crowd with one gesture and make it roar with another. He’s a warrior of the finest caliber, the last man standing, the green-eyed god with the Viking stance and big cat charisma. He was hitting those notes, too. Still has the pipes, the moves, and that mystical air of majesty that came with him from—where? No matter. It was good to see him again, to see once more the man who inspired a legend and be assured that nothing was imagined. He truly is that strong, that powerful, and that mesmerizing.

But he’s not my favourite Leppard. Never has been. That honour goes to the dishy disco-loving bass player with the moppy blond mane and sleepy blue eyes. My crappy camera phone snapped more shots of him than of anyone else, including Joe, so while I may be accused of a less than glowing review of Friday night’s show, I was un abashedly delighted to see Sav and his band. Good fun, good show … good night.