As a non-heavy metal rock fan, I was taken aback by Judas Priest's "Farewell Epitaph" show in 2011. Although I love it hard, big and fast ( a helping of Queen, a dollop of Pink Floyd, and hearty portions of Iggy Pop and Alice Cooper ), metal was not something that I could cozy up to, except for that one show. The prospect of covering Judas Priest's show Oct. 3 at the Horseshoe Casino in Hammond, Indiana, made me giddy, but completely unsure of what to expect.
The first dashed expectation came with the opener, Steel Panther. I figured the act to be yet another faceless, anonymous metal band prancing around in ass-clinging spandex, glad rags, subpar drag-queen makeup, and overteased hair that hung to the waist, but I was wrong. Steel Panther was all of that but served up in the service of absurdity and satire. The opener for the evening, "Pussy Whipped," from the new All You Can Eat, was so nutty and vulgar that it identified the band as a leering dirty joke.
After the song ( and the hair-tossing and phallic guitar posing ) came the jokes—like how bassist Lexxi Fox was so fetching that vocalist Mike Starr regretted that he didn't have a vagina so he could "do" him ( all this while Fox touched up his lip gloss and hair while looking at himself in a diamond-encrusted hand mirror ) or how performing in Indiana stirred up childhood memories of Starr's grandmother cooking meth in the kitchen. As if subtlety had anything to do with this set, "Asian hookers" popped up and upped the ante on rude comedy.
Of course, the gig was up with guitarist Satchel's outfit: butt-hugging spandex topped with a ripped shirt that was designed to highlight a hugely sculpted man boob and pointy pink nipple. The sight of him flailing away and grandstanding in the spotlight seemed hardly about homoeroticism ( or otherwise ) but a punchline. The truth is that outfit would get the guy hooted out of Boystown on a Saturday night.
Diverting as Steel Panther was, this night was all about Judas Priest. Never mind that they did not retire back in 2011—the band is currently wrapped in the rapture of celebrating its 40th anniversary not only as the standard of heavy metal, but as icons and major cultural influences. Now the band's gone and released Redeemer of Souls, as if to rub it in our faces.
"Redeemer" is pure metal served without apologies—hard, cool, vicious, overdramatic and the kind of record that demands to be played LOUDLY. It may not be a "keeper" for the ages ( sorry, Floyd's The Wall and Priest's British Steel set the standard ), but iit is a hearty reminder of how rock and, particularly, heavy metal can be vital while shaping an era.
On Oct. 3 at the Venue, the enormity of just "what" Redeemer of Souls meant was clearly not on the table; Judas Priest was all about celebrating itself AND embracing the fans. This no-frills show got to the core of what Judas Priest is and, as a cynical rock fan who happens to be queer ( translation: picky and bitchy in equal measures ), I cannot deny that I was blown clear out of my seat and then some. Classics like "Turbo Lover," "Jawbreaker," and "Hell Bent for Leather" were slung out with the angry crack of a new bullwhip. "Love Bites" and "March of the Damned" re-possessed goth rock while simultaneously refashioning it into something unnerving and terrifying. The new "Redeemer of Souls" and "Halls of Valhalla" were so savage that they fit into the show like a custom made glove.
What made this event such an out-and-out thriller was watching Judas Priest do what it does. Out vocalist/frontman Rob Halford still has a voice akin to a surgical instrument and he has kept it in fine shape ( think of Prince's falsetto but with jagged fangs ) while he also has an underrated talent for tonality. When he growled "You won't see me but you'll feel me" at the start of "Turbo Lover," his voice telegraphed eroticism as well as menace. Watching guitarists Glenn Tipton and Richie Faulkner in their dual attack was like watching the Eighth Wonder of the World, while bassist Ian Hill and drummer Scott Travis turned the quaint notion of a rock band into a predatory beast. After Halford roared out on a silver chopper to rip through "You've Got Another Thing Coming," I couldn't deny that for the previous two hours I had been clocked by the voice of God.
Meanwhile, the inaugural Great Chicago Fire Festival that took place Oct. 4 along the Chicago River between State Street and Michigan Avenue was a different kind of blowout. The city, in partnership with Redmoon Theater, presented a symbolic spectacle that bordered on the abstract. Thankfully, the weather behaved and though there were technical glitches, the festival delivered what it promised.
The night included celebrity grand marshals ( Jesse Spencer and Taylor Kinney of the TV show Chicago Fire ), a river bazaar, the Chicago Children's Chorus, custom-designed steamboats, two stages with live performances, fifteen fiery cauldrons, and three house-like structures planted in the river that were to be set ablaze at the climax. With tens of thousands in attendance many were disappointed when two of the structures refused to ignite, but the capper for the night—a massive fireworks display—dispelled much of the grumbling.
Weeks before the event there was some criticism in the media in regards to the content of the festival. After experiencing it for myself, the finished project only acknowledged the fire of 1871 while emphasizing Chicago's resurgence and renewal. What emerged was an event that actually celebrated civic pride on a huge scale while embracing this city's diversity.
