174. Guns ‘n Roses
London Stadium
16 June 2017
They said it couldn’t happen. Then they said it shouldn’t happen. But here we were, Axl, Slash, and Duff (but not Stradlin, of course) together again at London Stadium, cashing in the biggest nostalgia cheque since Fleetwood Mac discovered how much divorce costs.
Let’s be honest: no one came expecting artistic revelation. We came for riffs, nostalgia, and the faint hope that Axl wouldn’t throw a hissy fit. What we got was a lesson in how to look like you’re in the same band whilst clearly wishing you were in separate hemispheres.
The lights dropped. Axl appeared, sprinting (well, briskly jogging) across the stage, Slash lurked in his usual hat-and-hair combo, with Duff McKagan, as ever, being the only one who appeared to know what decade it was.
They launched into “It’s So Easy,” which, ironically, it clearly wasn’t. The sound was enormous, but the vibe was pure business transaction. Axl did his trademark snake dance, albeit a snake that has swallowed a mongoose and is still digesting it, and Slash did his solos looking for all the world like he was contemplating his latest tax return.
There’s an odd kind of theatre to watching people who once loathed each other, and still harboured it, share a stage again: the choreography of avoidance. They orbited each other like divorced parents at sports day; each played their role but nobody making eye contact.
The setlist kicked through “Mr Brownstone,” the lamentable “Chinese Democracy” and “Welcome to the Jungle,” all performed with the enthusiasm of men clocking into a shift. Much of the crowd loved it, of course. Middle-aged men in vintage tour shirts sang like they were nineteen again. Somewhere deep in East London, a mortgage adviser crowd surfed.
However, there was no spark. No danger. The old sleaze had been scrubbed clean and replaced with the same enthusiasm as a teenager on day release. Any fire that once made Guns N’ Roses feel genuinely unhinged was gone. This was a museum piece with pyrotechnics.
We had barely got to the halfway mark, when my friend and I exchanged a look that said “we’ve seen enough” and made a stealthy exit before “November Rain” could drown us in irony. Outside, the night air was cool, the cocktail bars of East London still open, and the faint whimper of “Sweet Child o’ Mine” followed us down the road like a ghost of past glories.
It wasn’t terrible. It just wasn’t alive. Guns N’ Roses used to have the swagger and the songs, but somewhere in that carefully choreographed detente, the chaos died and with it, all magic.