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Murderdolls & Stone Sour Live in the UK

By Tokemaster General, Contributor
Thursday, July 24, 2003 @ 2:41 PM


Murderdolls and Stone Sour Liv

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REVIEW BY: Danielle Adamson

Once upon a time, Ardwick Green was a chintzy inner-city oasis Cottonopolis where even Erich Weiss, that original, preening arch-egotist of the American Dream, got his rocks off on the milked applause at the Apollo’s predecessor, the Empire. But Harry Houdini would have run a mile from the bunch of miscreant Ghoulscouts, zombies and the maggots.

But then Ardwick Green has sure fallen on shit times. Now it’s a blasted heath of mean streets that include the gun ghetto land of Little Beirut and boarded-up shop parades smothered in graffiti and fly-posters.

Most of the Victorian buildings have fallen into desuetude – except the reclaimed campus of Mancat reborn with a concrete bomb bunker extension after the towering gothic portals of the old building almost burnt down in a fire last year. Hey, this gaggling train ‘round the gig venue, might have been en route for summer camp – but the uniform black was a dead giveaway. Dis was no pretentious sports day ritual - dis was the prologue to another pit homicide.

The double-headline bill was a headbanger’s dream that had drawn together a mix of fans that wuz as unlikely as ice-cream and salt and the tension growing around the stage wuz nothin’ on that of the forlorn parents who’d bin dragged up in here and left by the backdoors.

Warm-up time and Elviss stepped up, but if they were lookin’ to cook it, they blew it big. Dis half-assed crew were in the wrong place. The blue-jean scene, the weak-as-piss riffs and the Ivy League mantras didn’t cut no ice in da pit. I mean come on you mutha fuckin’ mommies boyz, you ain’t got shit and we is expected to pay.

It wuz some throat slittin’ listenin’ power we wuz after. And you guys weren’t given. Boo-hoo! What else did you expect?

Almost as soon as Elviss had quit, the Stone Sour faithfuls made a grab for the stage. And dey weren’t disappointed. Hey Elviss, I hope you wuz takin’ notes.

Corey Taylor has never bin one to act like he has nothin’ to prove. You clockin’ that Elviss? The way those funereal organ vibes unleashed the Taylorismo would’ve had Johan Sebastian in ecstasy.

Hair covering his face, it wuz very clear that the ‘Knot man’s Stone Sour hell project had come back to cause chaos.

Head bowed as he reached for the mic like some PoW refugee, the front man plunges his band into “Get Inside,” a stomach-turning opener. The time had come to count to six and die. The pit, a mass of goddamn werewolves.

This shit wuz headin’ for mayhem as the ‘Sour guitarist’s solo stirred in satanic verses that created waves. The surfers climbed aboard. It sure made the Apollo’s No Surfing deal look like a busted flush. But OI!- Apollo, who wants to throw half the giggers out, and the ‘Dolls ain’t even in sight yet.

Corey almost took an unscheduled dive as his feet slipped on some shit Apollo stage boards. But you’d never have known. Taylor didn’t let up as the band steamed through “Monolith,” “Choose” and “Inside The Cynic” with energy and flare. (Corey’s later verdict puller on his fall drew a chorus of cheers from the crowd-and some choicy expletives from the main man that could’ve bin dissin’ the backstage bozos).

He saved the real two-way rap for a charismatic inquisition that had the crowd ‘fessing up how many were new and how many old friends among the sea of devil horns had made it back since the bands last visit. You don’t need to bother askin’ No.8, no-one had any doubt that the audience is growin’. There wuz even less doubt that every fucker in dis faux naïf opera joint wuz gonna be run over by the pounding riffs that were surfacing.

The frontman then thanked the parents for bringin’ along their fucked-up offspring. And not just teens -- some kids weren’t even old enough for alcopops. Never mind getting off on the ‘F’ word.

Then the band took a breather as the singer took up centre stage for a guitar solo of “Bother” that got ‘nuff lighters in the air to burn down a church. It was truly amazing to watch. Corey’s vocals are spectacular and all were won over. Salutes are gonna be in order for a long time to come.

The tear-jerking over, an impressive display was topped with two grindingly obliterating tracks. And again, they came out on top finishing with “Inhale” and “Tumult” before calling it quits to allow the Murderdolls to dig up the crowd and bring necrophilia to the stage in style.

The lights dimmed as fragments of classic film theme tunes were played. Alongside went a comic grammatical take on our favourite four letter word while a backdrop scrawled with MURDERDOLLS set up a scene set for destruction. Enter five fiendish lookin’ crazies led by a sick, red and black clad reincarnation of Wednesday Adams. But there wuz no family values bullshit on 13’s watch as the mad dogs in the front row firing line found out.

This shit wasn’t for those of a nervous disposition. It was only for the divinely disturbed -- not you bullshitting, pop lovin’, dumb-ass Kerrang! journos. Go back to worshippin’ Nickelback, suckers! The ‘dolls are sumthin’ else.

“Dawn of the Dead,” “People Hate Me” and “Dressed to Depress” worked up a storm as the singer rushed around the stage like a deranged horror flick victim turned serial killer.

This red and black tornado with dreadlocks and the demented guitars Joey Jordison and Acey Slade dispel any dumb-assed doubts in a virtuoso spinnin’ instrument session, nailing solos like tomorrow was never comin’.

“Slit My Wrist” ups the pit violence and chaos consumes the stage. We came for a fuckin’ massacre and the Murderdolls don’t disappoint. You couldn’t ask for anything less as the pit seethes like something with one foot in the gutter, the other in the grave.

Wednesday reaches for his over-sized gun as he wills the crowd to chant “Die, Die, Die…….” And then offers up some mind-scramblin’ marriage advice as the grave robbers tear up “Die My Bride.”

The set becomes a parade of madness as props gruesomely push the show to the edg -- what with Jordison becomin’ a drag queen an’ all in that nice red wig. Wednesday adopts a hat and some sunglasses as he begins shouting “Simon, Simon, bring me a drink…” Sure enough a dwarf-sized guy with a deformed alien lookin’ head rushes forth bringin’ the demented singer a glass of absinthe on a tray. This is some fuckin’ freak show, that’s for sure.

Powering home “Love At First Fright” and “Lets Go To War” with delicious ease, the ‘Dolls look and sound stronger than ever, this is truly their show and there ain’t no other group like them.

A pre-encore break allows the band a quick costume change and they re-appear kitted out in custom-made Murderdoll football shirts. The unhinged singer sportin’ an umbrella cues the song “I Love To Say Fuck,” which is swallowed down by the exhausted rioters. It causes Acey to lose his clothes, if not to steal the show from his vocalist, then certainly to illustrate an in-joke on the singer.

Then a rendition of new single, “White Wedding,” just about rounds things up where dis assault is concerned. Its pretty obvious that the Murderdolls have made a synapse-shredding impact on those who’ve witnessed them on this tour and we is sure as hell gonna be back to see it again the next time we see their name on the bill. But dey couldn’t have left alive, or us dead, without playin’ the favourite that is “Dead In Hollywood” which leaves the fans with ten seconds till death tonight.

Just enough time to say, thanx, goodbye, so long, get lost, fuck off as a cloud of silver explodes above allowing glitter to reign down on the aftermath.



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