Show Report: Judas Priest
August 24 2009 at 04:12:33 AM  Judas Priest always meant more to me than Sabbath. Mostly it's because K. K. Downing and Glenn Tipton refused to pilfer shamelessly from Blues proper or R&B, instead making stand-on-its-own Heavy Metal that owed zilcho to ancient negroes croaking about times hard and harder no Anglican could ever fucking hope to understand. The addition of leatherman cum Rutger Hauer stunt-double Rob Halford pushed the vibe into overdrive; Priest a hyper-sexualized morass of hammer and anvil guitar, rear-entry lyricism, iron horse’s idling purr. The band’s sixth full-length, British Steel, abandoned the proto-Speed Metal glimpse of predecessors Stained Class and Hell Bent for Leather, instead embracing a mid-paced stomp rock typified by two of its three singles, “Breaking the Law,” and “Living After Midnight.” Priest kept a steady foot on the petrol throughout the program, only flirting with red-lining via “Rapid Fire,” and “Steeler,” two tracks littered with image and imploration befitting the unlikely hero inhabiting a world at turns hostile and ripe for the fucking. Of course Halford’s pen leaks nothing so much but double entendre, lending the horde of grime-baked bikers singing along to, “blasting the cannons of truth through each man of this earth,” a new dimension in hidden homosexual latency. (Sammy Delaney, eat your big gay heart out…) Transpose all of this to a corporate-sponsored amphitheatre in the middle of the suburban belly’s beast. Big M Mélange – redneck moms and dads and kids weaned from Wiis and shackled in for a night of analog rock with all yesteryear’s arena affectations long mothballed for Vegas “professionalism” and market dominance. Partner-in-crime practiced up on his sleight-of-hand abracadabra; a smuggled bottle of hooch appeared, begging for $5 lemonades. The what-ails-ya failed to render Popevil tolerable. “Thanks for putting up with us Michigan rock-‘n’-rollers,” etc. In point of fact: Apologizing for inflicting your shampoo emoting on a crowd while inflicting said shampoo emoting is strong ground for necessary disbandment, let alone possible disfigurement. Cue pissing rain and thus begins “Rapid Fire,” Downing and Tipton preserved in amber, choreographed head-banging, riffs founded on principles ancient and fundamental and fed hard-cock candy ‘til lit afire with arrogance and blood. This is exactly what the fuck I’m talking about. The humidity is outta Abu Ghraib and Halford’s armored in denim, goat beard a juniper scrabble over the mic as he stays stoically hunched and reptilian, words whipped up from his gut and screeched. Spit flying into the suburban dusk. There are spotlights and lasers and a massive seemingly human-generated backdrop depicting hyperbolically romanticized notion of U.K. industry. I haven’t seen Priest since Defenders of the Faith: this stage-show/presence is/was no different: preservation at its motherfuckin’ zenith. Band as cliché-made-manifest one, shirking aesthetic evolution for sc-fi theology – “Metal Gods” working as the quartet’s alternately grinding dry-hump OST and eschatological, future-shocked purview: “We’ve taken too much for granted / And all the time it had grown / From techno seeds first planted / evolved a mind all its own.” Tipton’s donning the same painted on red leather. His hair’s frosted flakes, winged, begging for MILF who’ve seen nada action save pocket vibes and Lifetime pool guy on neglected mommy fantasia. The shit he and Downing wrangle from their axes is ageless vampiric manifesto. Notes and clusters cut from plans detailed in obsidian rock, fissures in planetary geologic anuses, bright and bewildering schemata only revealed to zombified rockers, toothless wonders shunning Guitar Hero for finished basements replete with brew-yr-own, gro-lite, Hit Parader postered walls. Ian Hill continues to maintain his grip on literally living in the shadows. Relative newcomer drummer Scott Travis mixes tricks and licks from Mssers Lee and Peart and still manages to improve upon Dave Holland’s cruise-for-dudes backbeat: twin-kicks kicking, cymbals shimmering. “Breaking the Law,” “Grinder,” even fucking “United,” which would’ve served able “neo-con” anthem had it not been rendered by a dodgy lot fronted by the rough-boy in perpetuum. The instrumentalists get some stage-side oxygen and Halford enjoys the sing-along, cheerleader bit. “ALRITE! ALL YOU HEH-VEE MEH-TUL MANE-EEE-ACKS! ARE YOU READY FOR SOME MORE CLASSIC JUDAS FUCKING PRIEST?!” Crowd reciprocates – thankfully – and is rewarded with “The Ripper,” “Victim of Changes,” “Diamonds & Rust,” fucking “Freewheel Burning.” Halford mounts the Harley. The PA gets the iron horse neigh and out he comes, chrome and flesh, a leathered sci-fi robo-fucker scouting asphalt plains for cherry ass. Lasers are dispatched. Enough lights to brighten Bangladesh. Man goes machine: “Lookbeforeyouleaphasneverbeenthewaywekeepourroadisfree / charging to the top andnevergiveinneverstopstheway to baaaaaaaaay / Holdontheleadwithallyourwilland concedeyou’llfindthere’s LIFE / With VICCC-TOHHH-EEE / With VICCC-TOHHH-EEE / Owwn high!” Halford “milks” the Harley bit; lasers cut through the camera-phone wielding mass and back far into the cheap seats and beyond to the lawn and laze and crackle in flashes of hot green amongst the pines. Aurora borealis in Alpharetta. And that’s all, folks. [Stewart Voegtlin]
type: reviews
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