Concert review: Billy Idol dances with himself and a sold-out Metropolis crowd – Montreal Gazette

When he turned his back to the crowd Tuesday night, stripped off his shirt, swivelled around and carefully adjusted his jacket to expose his freakish rock-grating abs, there was no doubting it: William Michael Albert Broad still adores playing the part of Billy Idol.

It remains a remarkably convincing role. Perhaps if Idol had done an extensive tour more than once a decade since the 1990s, the scowls and the spikes and the alpha-male seduction techniques would have lapsed into tired shtick by now. But with the rarity of his visits and, much more importantly, the elation in his performance, Idol had no trouble selling his persona to a Metropolis crowd that was as tightly packed as his trousers.

He bounded on stage like it was 1984, and the first impression — bolstered by a mix that pumped his vocals high enough to neuter the band at first — was how well his velvet sneer has aged. A few cracks would surface later in the set, but they were paved over by his bravura showmanship.

From the first prizefighter’s fist raised in the opening Postcards From the Past, it was clear Idol relished his return. He was in full bleached Elvis mode by the second number, Cradle of Love, whose swagger and levity set the tone for the night. When he wasn’t gyrating and striking muscle-mag poses for the front of the house, he was doing a veil dance (minus the veil) for pyrotechnic guitarist Steve Stevens.

Breathless and dripping by the third song, Idol didn’t make his job look easy, and that included remembering the set list. He cued up a song by his late-’70s glam-punk band Generation X before realizing he was about to play “the new f—ing single,” the sleek Can’t Break Me Down.

“Now we’re gonna do the Generation X song. Just moving a bit too fast.” You could feel the floorboards buckling four snare cracks into Dancing With Myself (easily the most riotous reaction before the end of the main set, with the appreciative but surprisingly sedate audience not always giving as good as it got). Hiccuping his way to glory, Idol milked the “I’d ask MON-TREE-AWL to dance” line to the point of intentional comedy.

Review continues after gallery.

He’s still the kind of performer who will act out a “my head is banging on the floor” or “wave below to Christ” lyric — which is to say, not subtle. That’s good news, because Flesh for Fantasy would have suffered without the sleaze of Idol thrusting and pumping, and Save Me Now needed its throat-ravaging snarl.

Sweet Sixteen and Eyes Without a Face were well-placed breathers, and it said something about the energy level of the nearly two-hour set that the latter breather included heroic riffing and windmilling by Stevens. In a robust band that did the catalogue proud and toughened up the songs from last year’s Kings and Queens of the Underground, there was no debate over the MVP. On his time off from teasing and pleasing the crowd, Idol was doting on his longtime lead guitarist.

Their bond was endearing, and the frontman’s affection is well placed: Stevens’s showcase — featuring snippets of Zeppelin’s Over the Hills and Far Away and Stairway to Heaven, and a lot of other stuff — was as short as a six-minute guitar solo is likely to get.

A breakneck, bass-heavy Whiskey and Pills was the best of the solid new material, but it couldn’t compare to the climax, prefaced with an early contender for most hilariously blunt intro of the year: “I’ve got two words: Rebel Yell!” With that, the briefly re-shirted Idol was topless again, writhing like few 59-year-olds can. (If Iggy Pop ever retires, he’ll easily inherit the trophy for greasiest torso in rock.)

By the time the show ended with a rambling Mony Mony, Idol was visibly and audibly wrecked, although he had enough vigour left to pass a month’s supply of drumsticks and set lists to the front row, and to bark along with the “hey motherf—er” chant beloved by frat boys of all ages. Usually a prelude to projectile vomiting or frosh-week felonies, that tender come-on has rarely sounded more purely jubilant.

jzivitz@montrealgazette.com
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