So, George Michael takes the Olympic opening ceremony as his
opportunity to wallow in egotistical shite bath to remind us all how ill he was
last year. I can’t really describe how annoyed this made me, but by jingo, I’m
going to have a go.
George, there is a time and a place. The fact you have seen
fit to make your new single a self-confessed ode to your near death experience
is surely enough reference to what should really be a private matter. This
whole tawdry spectacle offends me for the simple reason that I think he’s
making far too much out of it. And before you call me a heartless bastard who
should just allow his tracheotomy scar its little moment in the sun, let me
explain.
I have a personal axe to grind here. Barely a month after George
left his enforced stay with the intensive care nurses to confront the world’s
media on the lawn of his Hampstead home, I found myself facing exactly the same
predicament. A very nasty case of double pneumonia resulted in a hospital stay
of three weeks, including two in intensive care where I languished in a
medically induced coma as my body fought off various complications. Eventually
I got better, but not before my family went through hell wondering if I was
going to pull through and I had spent weeks lying in bed waiting for my
strength to come back.
George seems to labour under the misapprehension that he had
some kind of life changing experience that we are privileged to share with him
via the medium of his tedious dance-pop. He claims there is some kind of
mythical “white light” waiting for us as we ascend to the spirit world. Of
course, George isn’t claiming to have got religion: he’s got the pop star’s
next best thing, the uselessly vague term “spirituality”. Excuse me, Mr Michael, but what exactly does
that mean? Spirit of what? The only spirit I remember from hospital is possibly
the white spirit they used to swab my catheter. I mean, get Catholicism or
something: at least it’s a creed.
Why pop stars insist of assigning some kind of spurious significance
to any major health scare, as if every bump in the road was a readymade
epiphany waiting for the juggernaut of their massive ego to thunder over it in
a blaze of self-regarding publicity, utterly eludes me. I can confidently
assure anyone who is interested that there is no white light waiting at the
gates of paradise or elsewhere. All I remember is confusion, nightmares,
hallucinations, a feeling of being choked and an endless beeping sound from the
various machines I was hooked into to keep me alive.
Maybe I’m just not as “spiritual” as George. Maybe only
those so preternaturally gifted as the former shuttlecock stuffing pop star can
truly appreciate the significance of death brushing past you in the corridor
like a cold draft from an open door. All
I know is I am thankful to the doctors and nurses who kept me alive and brought
me back to my family, who let me hold my wife and my son again, who gave me a
chance to keep on acting out this random pantomime. Did they get me closer to
my spirituality? Frankly, no.
George, make a donation to your local ICU, file it under
“lucky escapes”, then get back to what you do best: singing songs about
shagging strangers in public toilets. And cut down on the spliffs, as they
aren’t good for your fragile lungs.
Anything else is just crass grandstanding and you should keep it to
yourself.
It’s not that often that you find yourself standing in a
crowd of men raising your arm in salute and chanting “Hail and Kill!” In fact,
to my normally liberal sensibilities, there is something not quite right about
such behaviour. When Pink Floyd drew parallels between fascist rallies and rock
concerts, it may all have seemed like vague millionaire whinging and tortured
metaphor, but now I’m not so sure.
But why have doubts when confronted by the sheer bollock
rattling volume emitting from what appears to be a PA system beamed in from
some masturbatory sonic fantasy? Conversation is impossible, but in any case, what would be discussed? The only subject here today is METAL, as
brought to us by its undoubted overlords, Manowar.
There’s no denying it: truly they are the Kings of Metal. We
know this because they tell us, repeatedly.
Manowar is a metal version of those motivational speakers who teach you
ways to pump your confidence so that in the end you truly believe you can
conquer all who stand in your way. They are the Paul McKenna of motivational
metallurgists.
For those of you yet to experience their singular vision,
here’s some backstory. Manowar were formed in 1980 by bassist Joey DeMaio,
guitarist Ross the Boss and vocalist Eric Adams. Typically, they’ve had a
succession of drummers over the years, most notably the handlebar moustachioed
Scott Columbus. For most of their career they’ve ploughed a lonely furrow,
fighting against what they term the forces of False Metal, typified by the
spandex, hairspray and inherent “pussyness” of prevailing eighties rock
trends. They’ve weathered changes of
musical fashion by staying firmly in one place, and if anything are now even
more fundamentalist in their vision of metal Valhalla. Even in their fifties, they can still be
found clad in animal skins and leather chaps, their bulging biceps lightly
oiled and gleaming in the pyro. They have performed with 100 piece orchestras,
recorded a version of Nessun Dorma, and performed the William Tell overture as
a bass solo. In short, they rock.
Manowar are here in Glasgow for the first time since 1984 to
celebrate the 30th anniversary of their debut, “Battle Hymns”. Many of tonight’s audience have waited since then
to see their heroes return, judging by the expanding waistlines and receding
hairlines in evidence. Metal fans are
unfailingly loyal, and this is especially true of Manowar’s. Numerous examples
of the band’s fantasy themed artwork adorn bodies and clothing, and the merchandise
stall is doing brisk business, even at 30 pound a t-shirt. Should you get
lucky, you can even buy Manowar condoms, known as “Warrior’s Shields”, tastefully
emblazoned with the romantic legend “Rock, Drink and Fuck”, which may or may
not be intended as instructions.
Like any successful business, Manowar is a brand.
Everything is calculated to appeal to their core audience, from their artwork
of muscled warriors and busty submissive wenches to songs such as Warriors of
the World, Metal Warriors, Hymn of the Immortal Warriors and Hymn of the
Immortal Metal Warrior of Steel. Okay, I made the last one up, but they will
probably get to it eventually. So precious is this brand that bootlegging or
photography is policed with frightening efficiency, with guards aiming laser
pens at errant camera phones. Most
fans here paid almost sixty quid a ticket and have likely spent the equivalent
on merchandise, so perhaps it seems somewhat churlish to deny them the chance
to take a photograph of their heroes, but Manowar are so definitively of a
bygone age perhaps they fear their souls may be diminished.
So the faithful have gathered like storm clouds over distant
plains, although the Army of Immortals fail to fill the entire venue and the
upstairs balcony remains resolutely closed.
As the band hit the stage to their theme song, dubbed, naturally, “Manowar”,
I am struck by two things: the sound is perhaps the clearest I have ever heard
at a rock concert, but it is also, surprisingly, not that loud. After all, this
is a band who achieved Guinness Record status in 1984 with a performance of
139db, over 50 decibels above the recommended safe limit. My ear plugs remain in my pocket, but it’s a
cunning ruse. Once the levels are set, the volume fader goes ever upwards. By
the time the third song is reached, my ear plugs are in and the music is
actually beginning to affect the composition of my internal organs. The band power
through their debut album in its entirety, and I allow myself a definite tear
of nostalgia as “Battle Hymn” reaches a thunderous climax of feedback and
screams.
And then, we stop.
Just as the audience are warming up, the band announces an intermission.
The idea of such bloodthirsty warriors nipping backstage for a quick pee, cuppa
and maybe a cheeky scone seems oddly out of place. I scan the hall to see if a
scantily clad pleasure slave has emerged from the wings bearing Manowar’s own
brand of choc-ices, but it seems we are to stock up on alcohol in readiness for
the concert’s second half, which arrives soon afterwards with yet another
increase in volume.
There is no doubt Manowar are in great shape. DeMaio, with
his long straight black hair, resembles a Cherokee chief on the warpath, his
expression seemingly carved out of granite while he plays his bass in the
manner of a lead guitarist. Adams
possesses a voice to match the bulging of his muscles, which bring to mind
Clive James’ memorable description of Arnold Schwarzenegger as a “condom
stuffed with walnuts”. Guitarist Karl Logan operates with the studied demeanour
of a classical musician, peeling off the mighty riffs like flesh from a thigh
bone.
It is all ridiculously entertaining and performed utterly
straight faced. Manowar truly believe in everything they sing about. They are
on a mission, and would, should it come to it, “Die for Metal”, although why
such sacrifice should be required is left unclear. Their lyrical view, when not dealing with
motorbikes and heavy metal, is firmly focussed on mythology of either Norse or
Greek origin. The overall effect is Wagnerian in intensity and intent, which
perhaps explains their popularity in Germany and Greece.
Unusually for a metal
band, they don’t really go in for Satanism, and references to Hell are more
likely to refer to Hades than any Christian notions. Instead, they hark back to
an idealised paganism or warrior society, and although they profess to stand
for freedom, they do so by adhering to a strict code of behaviour. Honour,
sacrifice, death, victory, vengeance; these are the main pillars of Manowar’s
religion.
In our age of irony, when nothing can be taken at face value
and everything must be approached with a knowing smirk, such dedication is
commendable. This crowd knows exactly
what they want and Manowar are happy to deliver it to them, re-affirming a
sense of belonging and community which may be sadly lacking in other
areas of life. Manowar exist outside the
whims of fashion, standing up for what they believe, whatever that might
be. With their eagles, swords, and black
and red hammer emblems, as if Albert Speer was in charge of creative
direction. Allied to DeMaio’s dedication
to Wagner and the fascination with power and domination, there’s something
disturbingly familiar about their iconography. Is it any wonder that extreme
right wing idealogues, such as Greece’s Golden Dawn party, draw their support
from disenfranchised working class males, much like Manowar’s audience, unhappy
with their perceived powerlessness in the face of encroaching modernity?
I could be reading too much into this and I’m certainly not
accusing Manowar of being fascists. Maybe I am, in the parlance of Manowar, a
False One, an unbeliever. But, as I raise my imaginary Hammer high, shout “Hail
and Kill!” with my fellow fans, and watch DeMaio prise the strings off his
guitar with his bare hands, I feel strangely exhilarated and somewhat
spent. And you can’t ask for more than
that from a rock and roll show, can you?
