The essence of metal at its unreconstructed best
Welcome, inevitably, to Flight 666. No really. That's what it says on the board at Gatwick. We depart, as Bruce explains over the tannoy, from "the gate of hell" (actually it's 44D). Reassuringly he looks the part in dark blue tie and jacket with three golden rings around the cuff and seems very serious about his role as first officer (we get a full time captain, thank God). But still. We're all going to die. "We don'want you to meet your maker before the appointed hour," declares Bruce. "Which is 9.15 tonight at Bercy. Although I understand that for the Australians, Judgement Day has just come a little early."Read the rest [url=http://forum.maidenfans.com/index.php?showtopic=3085&st=0&]here[/url]
Source: [url=http://www.dotmusic.com/reviews/Live/November2003/reviews31615.asp]Dotmusic[/url]
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On paper, it sounded fantastic. Fly to Paris on a 727 piloted by Bruce Dickinson to see Iron Maiden. A one off chance to experience life as a seventies rock hack. Sign us up. On the plane, the reality of the situation slowly dawns. Competition winners, film crews, writers and record company types tuck rowdily into goodie bags containing Jack Daniels, condoms and, um, a Maiden cagoule. It seems that everyone bar a single journalist, sitting stock upright in his seat, has overlooked a very important fact: WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!
Welcome, inevitably, to Flight 666. No really. That's what it says on the board at Gatwick. We depart, as Bruce explains over the tannoy, from "the gate of hell" (actually it's 44D). Reassuringly he looks the part in dark blue tie and jacket with three golden rings around the cuff and seems very serious about his role as first officer (we get a full time captain, thank God). But still. We're all going to die. "We don'want you to meet your maker before the appointed hour," declares Bruce. "Which is 9.15 tonight at Bercy. Although I understand that for the Australians, Judgement Day has just come a little early."
So, 9.14, Bercy. Inside a gigantic grass-covered concrete shed (imagine a 'Tellytubby' house the size of Wembley Arena), 15,000 rabid French metal fans are Mexican waving themselves into a frenzy. In the UK, we'd manage once or twice. Here they just keep going and going. Bruce kicks a rugby ball into the crowd and within five minutes Maiden have revelled in every metal cliché imaginable. Gothic castle stage set complete with two grim reapers? Yup. Trio of, ahem, 'axemen' riffing in formation? Uh-huh. Spotlight for the guitar solo? You betcha. All in leather, bar the odd pair of battered trainers? Let's rock!
France has clearly stuck by Maiden when everyone else wanted to forget. Bruce delivers sweet speeches in French about how much these fans mean to them and, for once, it seems genuine. No wonder - who else would holler with such delight at the intro to 'Can I Play With Madness?', the group's sole moment of euro fromage. And there'something fitting about watching these long-term French fans, impervious to fashion, go absolutely 15,000-strong moshpit berserk to music that has refused to change. Music that's found strength and longevity in sticking doggedly to its principles.
The show is spectacular. Theatrical but never too camp (Bruce as the 'Phantom Of The Opera', trainers showing under his cape; a full WWI trenches set up for 'Paschendale', Bruce waving a dirt-stained Union Jack; guitarist Janick Gers pausing mid solo to lick a finger and stroke the head of the bouncer standing in the photo pit before him; a 25ft Eddie as another grim reaper). Anthemic without every being weak-willed (these are stern, aggressive riffs - monolithic, monumental, fearing no challenge; the choruses are simple, gigantic, amazingly infectious). The essence of metal at its unreconstructed best.
Flight 667, Paris to London. Drummer Nicko McBrain shakes hands with everyone as they board ("alright mate" for men, "hello sweetheart" for the ladies, a kind-hearted cockney charmer still basking in the seventies), and gets on the tannoy to elicit applause for the "gorgeous girls" serving the drinks. Then we hit turbulence. Really really bad turbulence. So bad we can't land. The diehards cheer while everyone else does their best not to throw up. It's truly frightening. We are all going to die.
The moral of the story? See Maiden in Paris, if you get the chance. But for the love of Christ, take the Eurostar.
Ian Watson
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Cheers
And a nice pic included:
[img]http://www.dotmusic.com/images/ironmaiden/live_01_zoom.jpg[/img]
Cheers