The Brag

There are bands who can, through extravagant gesture, wit and charm, cross the divide of the cavernous arena distance between audience and artist with an effortlessness which makes it feel as though you’re sharing an intimate secret together, not standing separated by a hundred or so metres and dozens of rows of seats. Bands who can use a space that big to cast a life-affirming spell of spectacle over the faithfully gathered. Bands who can muster from deep within themselves that kernel of eternal commitment to rock and roll, and who can kick out a heartbreaking, ball-busting, spiritually rousing arena rock show, despite all the years they’ve been doing that same damn thing, night after night, as though their life depended on it.

And then there’s Mötley Crüe, who are none of those things.

Please know here that I was pretty alone in feeling this at the Entertainment Centre. The river of my bitter, disappointed tears ran counter to the tide of raucous appreciation which greeted Vince Neil every time he held out his microphone in lieu of actually singing a chorus, palming that off to the crowd instead, presumably to save his voice for the few times he could muster the ability to hit a high note. I mean, whatever! That’s ok! It’s not like it’s the frontman’s job to sing or anything. No, it’s the frontman’s job to appear as a pudgy version of his former self whose idea of “California tan” is closer to terrifying Oompa Loompa orange. And on the topic of vocals: pre-recorded backing vocals? Also totally fine, right?

Mötley Crüe have, somehow, been together for 30 years – though a few of those years were in hiatus, or when they replaced Vince Neil with John Carabi. So when Nikki Sixx addressed the crowd, eventually, with “I only want one motherfuckin’ singer in my band, and that’s fuckin’ Vince Neil!”, it rings more hollow than a wheat silo. Mötley Crüe’s attraction as a live band at the height of their ‘80s power was the ever-present threat of their implosion onstage. Now that they are all several years sober, their overwhelming motivation is money, not love for each other. The pall of their acrimony hangs heavily over their show, and no amount of rotating drum kit solos (to a techno track??), art school visual projections, flames or an unconvincing sign reading ‘SIN’ can cover it up.

The band had organised the setlist via online fan voting, so there were, of course, all the hits, along with a smattering of tracks from 2008’s Saints Of Los Angeles. Then there was a completely odd moment of segueing into Cee Lo Green’s ‘Fuck You’ – and it was hard to tell if this was out of Mötley Crüe’s genuine appreciation for the song, or a special message to everyone who’d paid the band $160.

File under: did not need to see. Pick up a copy of The Dirt and read it while listening to Too Fast For Love instead. Past glories trump the present, sadly, at the Mötley show.

Elmo Keep