Poison, with Slaughter, Dokken and Cinderella
Molson Amphitheatre, June 28, '00
by Martin Popoff
"Metal is back" contains a bit of bad logic. Nothing is back forever, and there are always examples along "being back" that are woeful. Pantera's latest struggling toward gold, U.D.O. attracting a crowd of 90 to a recent Toronto show, and Danzig plus three varied draws pulling a money-losing 500 at another T.O. non-event, all counter the "metal is back" credo hopefully crowed, muttered and robotically babbled when a piece requires an angle. However, people remarked that Motorhead, already a good draw at over 1500 on their last stop here, this time around were up over 2000. Then there was Slipknot and Kittie selling out two nights at the same 2500 capacity venue.
But I ain't seen nothing yet like the freak geek show that was June 28th's Slaughter/Dokken/Cinderella/Poison full hair stop at the Molson Amphitheatre here in non-plussed Toronto, over 5000 ill-fits and mill-kids showing up for what was a vacuum-packed leap back in time. And to put it in vaulted perspective, apparently this bill sold out an 18,000 seater a few nights earlier in some U.S. town without taste, maybe more than once; I'm barely following the news. But here in the non-metal zone, 5000+ was a success no matter which knee's jeans you slice.
It was sick, it was funny, it was inspiring, it was pathetic. The reason this billed work was this: each band had its devotees, nay, its stalker fanatics. It was like a game of musical chairs. Each band would crank up some rocker or some ballad, and there he was popping up like a jack-in-a-box, that guy who almost died of alcohol poisoning up, standing and devil-horning alone to 'Up All Night' or the chick who took a train in stepdad's bedroom to 'Alone Again' or that big fat guy who just barely escaped suicide bawlin' inside to 'Something To Believe In', or that grave geek reflecting on how for him, everything is 'In My Dreams', or the overweight groupie-wannabe always needing "a little shelter", each and all clutching rope strands precariously levitating their own inner world, each outcast eyesore standing sentinel to an era when glittery untouchables ruled their earth and wrote songs for the very inside of their arteries.
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