Halifax, NS - Media Reviews

Leppard fans rejoice to unholy din By Sandy MacDonald

One of the well-stomped cliches in rock writing is to label a band "smoking." "That was a smokin' set, the guitar picker was smokin,' man..."

Last night it was Def Leppard's crowd that was smokin' - from the party-on dudes in the back of a pickup truck pulling on a joint in the parkade to the big hoss puffing a Players beside me all night. I've never seen so many Bics actually lighting something in a concert.

Onstage, the Leps were definitely packing the gear to ignite the Halifax Metro Centre. A Berlin wall of Marshall amps, fanning out from Rick Allen's elevated drum riser, was as menacing a monster as Halifax has seen since that US aircraft carrier anchored here.

When guitarists Vivian Campbell and Phil Collen sparked the whole rig, the Metro Centre exploded with an unholy din. And the 6,500 there--smokers and non-smokers alike--rejoiced. Before the opening tune was half done, the entire floor was atop their chairs, craning to catch a glimpse of singer Joe Elliott. Garth Brooks may have drawn a bigger crowd, but Def Leppard had no pretenders in the house.

While the Metro Centre has been busy in recent months, there have been few ear-ringing rock shows. Sure, the chart-topping cowpokes can stack up a tower of speakers, but they rarely cross the red line.

But give Metallica or ZZ Top the throttle to the sound machine, and you don't need to be in the downtown to hear the show. Leppard fans were primed last night, and showed their enthusiasm by standing, dancing and screeching along through much of the long set.

In a career that spins back to working-class Sheffield in 1977, Def Leppard have mastered the adolescent white-bread rock genre. The music hasn't really changed much since the late '60s, when Led Zeppelin took the bluesy rock of the Rolling Stones and added arena theatrics and hocus pocus mysticism.

Then Leppard, teamed with producer Mutt Lange (currently husband and producer of country megastar Shania Twain), took the edges off the heavy metal roar of the early '80s. They took the music into the heart of America and sold 25 million copies of Pyromania ('83) and Hysteria ('87).

Last night's concert was, ironically, more relaxed and less intense--though louder and smokier--than the Garth Brooks experience last week.

The crowd went ballistic when one-armed drummer Rick Allen offered up the requisite solo. Since rolling his Corvette on New Year's Eve '84 and losing his left arm at the shoulder, Allen has ingeniously adapted electronic technology to allow him to play. While most of his hitting surfaces are synthesizer control pads, he plays the largest acoustic kick drum in the western world. You could pack a refrigerator into that thing.

And it moves a lot of air. That whomp in the chest is the defining moment in arena rock shows. In the age of 24-hour video channels, rare are the rock fans who haven't seen their favourite band performing in concert, even if it's on a 14-inch black and white TV.

But the live concert, with the jet engine volumes, blinding light shows and visceral crowd response, is still the measure of a band. If I'm paying $30 for a seat, I want that band smokin.'

By The Daily News 1996.

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