82. Rival Sons

Roundhouse

1 April 2015

Despite my friend’s firm conviction that Rival Sons had “a bit too much Dio about them”, a suspicion that was not relinquished throughout their entire set at the Roundhouse, joining us on this one was my friend, a delightful criminal barrister with a penchant for intermittently derailing our pre-gig drinks vibe with disarmingly casual tales of whatever odious misdemeanours had crossed her courtroom that week.

The gig itself was glorious, swaggering rock and roll; loud, tight, and satisfyingly overblown. But if you’ve read the previous diary entry on Rival Sons, you’ll know the drill: a well-cut silhouette of vintage riffs and velvet punch. It’s all there, all again, and all still very good. But that’s not the bit that stuck.

No, the real story came after the final chord had rung out and the amps had gone cold. we were decompressing with a post-match drink in the Roundhouse bar when in strolled Scott Holiday and Michael Miley, Rival Sons’ guitarist and drummer respectively, still vibrating slightly with residual stage energy. Holiday glanced down and clocked my boots, Jeffery Wests, not unlike his own.

“Nice shoes,” he says, nodding with the kind of approval that suggests we might be in the same secret society of flamboyant footwear.

What followed was a brief but lovely chat with Holiday, but mostly Miley, who both turned out to be as affable as they were rhythmic, before the band made their way toward the exit, still trailed by a faint shimmer of rock-and-roll cool. And just like that, the night pivoted, from a solid gig to the rare, accidental joy of being complimented on your boots by a man who knows his way around a riff, even if erroneously categorised as Dio impersonation.