77. Black Label Society

Roundhouse

13 February 2015

Some might say my attendance at a Zakk Wylde gig, the snarling, Viking-bearded godfather of Flying V cock-rock, is a bit of a mismatch. And those people would be absolutely correct. However, I have a mate whose musical compass points firmly that way, and since I’ve subjected him to more than one ambient-drone-set-in-a-converted-toilet type of gig, so I owed him.

The evening began promisingly: wine and steaks at the late Belgo Noord. Spirits high, arteries primed, we rolled into the Roundhouse members’ bar just as Wylde was already on stage. Correction: assaulting the stage, in the way only a man styled as Rock-Gandalf, sporting a Flying V slung low enough to trip a hobbit, can. There he stood, guitar thrust forward, hips working overtime, face twisted into a rictus of shredding-induced torment. At first, I thought he might be having a stroke. I even mentally ran through the “FAST” stroke-check mnemonic, though I came unstuck on the ‘S’. Was it Sudden soloing? Spandex strain? Subtle thrash-induced seizure? The man looked in pain, but also possibly aroused by his own fretwork.

Every note was a squeal, every solo a scorched-earth mission across the fretboard. Years as Ozzy’s axe-wielding warlord have clearly convinced Zakk that every show should be played like it’s Donington ’92 and the stage is rigged with more explosives than the Manhattan Project. Except it was the Roundhouse, and the only flourish that the lighting guy had added was a bit of orange.

To be clear, the man can play. Technically? Outrageous. Charisma? Somewhere between Norse god and pro wrestler. But subtlety? Nuance? Anything under 150 decibels? Not tonight, Satan. After the third extended guitar solo (each roughly the length of a medium-haul flight), it became clear that this was less of a rock show for the age, more of an age show on the rocks. We gave up and went to find a cocktail. There is only so much dry humping of a perfectly innocent vintage guitar one can take on an evening.