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Four hours before Bruce Dickinson, Steve Harris, Dave Murray, Adrian Smith, Jannick Gers and Nicko McBrian will explode on stage before sea of mano cornuta at the Air Canada Centre, room 9-195 of the Fairmont Hotel is a beautiful picture of excess. Surrounded by empties and sleeping on bare mattresses, two men, who your reporter has chosen not to name due to a truly metal drunken urination incident and the potential of an additional room charge, are bemoaning the painful consequences of the previous night's activities.
Like many of guests of this fine hotel, they have traveled thousands of miles to see Iron Maiden play what until the end of the show is thought to be one of only three Canadian dates on the band's Somewhere Back in Time tour. Despite the pounding headaches and frequent post-drinking bowel movements, they are stoked. When their king can-carrying crew comes knocking, they shake off the cobwebs, pulling on skinny jeans and applying bandanas. "We don't even need jackets," one buddy offers, holding a map that indicates they can make the trek via an underground maze called PATH, avoiding an abnormally bitter March chill. The excitement is palpable. The rapidly increasing group collectively agrees: The night is going to fucking rule.
It does. After almost witnessing a turf war between a number of sketchy-looking scalpers, the pack, now 10 or so large, makes its way through security and into what can only be described as a concourse full of cock. Hundreds of balding ex-jocks share beer lines with true-blooded long hairs and hip young skaters, each group ogling the few women mostly girlfriends and moms making the rounds. According to the sold-out crowd on this Sunday evening, true metal is a male-dominated realm, which makes opening act and Maiden bassist Steve Harris' daughter Lauren Harris' power pop set painful and almost wrong. Your reporter will make only one comment on this: She is quite attractive.
When the band emerges to some dry ice, pyrotechnics and "Aces High," the crowd is amped and the applause is damn near deafening. Dickinson, sporting a camo top and God-awful pants, sprints around stage like a man possessed. True to form, over the course of the evening, he will prove he is the world's fittest man, spinning, jumping, changing costumes (which include a black cloak, creepy mask and vintage British infantry uniform) and navigating the props with cat-like prowess without once missing a note or falling to his death.
His mates, although they all look like saggy, fifty-somethings with sleeveless tees and obvious mooseknuckles, still rock surprisingly tight as they prance around the Egyptian-inspired set reminiscent of the Powerslave tour. To be sure, they're a little too smiley, and Gers guitar spinning, humping and general fancy feet and scissor kicks no doubt border on cheesy. But the flawless transitions between songs interestingly done just like on record and genuine enthusiasm offer that passion trumps gravity any day.
Even Eddie, who graces the plethora of backsplashes showsed up for a bit avec laser pistol, fighting each of the band member and attempting to strum Murray's axe before heading backstage. But his appearance is much cooler than the group of jumping fools who must have won a radio contest and are ushered onstage for no more than 30 seconds of backup singing.
Simply, it is an epic event. Iron Maiden blows through most of their '80s hits, crushing "Run To The Hills," "The Trooper," "Wasted Years," "Fear Of The Dark," "Powerslave" and "Two Minutes To Midnight" and whipping the crowd into a frenzy. When Dickinson announces a number of additional summer dates, including Calgary, Edmonton, Regina and Winnipeg and although he won't confirm, Toronto the place goes off. Your reporter's now very boozy subjects and the three 13 year-old boys behind them lock horns. The metal torch has been passed. Long live Iron Maiden.
Thanks to Chart Attack for the review!
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