Source:
http://www.canada.com/entertainment/Guns+Roses+rock+Montreal+fans/2494249/story.htmlGuns N' Roses rock Montreal fans
MONTREAL - There's waiting, and then there's waiting.
There's a teenage lifetime of dashed expectations, a lot of Patience, and an eventual 10:30 start time attending some kind of payment on an old debt.
And there's Axl Rose, so toss the script aside and let's see what flag we're flying when we take 'er home.
Guns N' Roses finally made it back to Montreal, 17 years after a Big O riot, minus all other original members save the singer. But there would be no angry recriminations, or formal addressing of a past event that many in the crowd only heard about from their tattoed parents or older siblings. There would be a huge three-guitar arena show for just under 12,000, with enough happy pyro for a Vegas New Year's Eve, a run through the hard rock touchstones from a 28-million-selling debut album, and the professionalism and honest rock'n'roll bonhomie we've come to expect from Axl Rose...
But the surprises would mark this as something else, something... unexpected: witty musical nods to Elton John, Henry Mancini and the Immigrant Song, a self-deprecating story about being winded, a reference to Kid Rock, sly references to 17 years ago, a masterfully-avoided apology, a song called Sorry, and 2 ½ hours of what can only be described as a likeable Axl Rose earning a barely-qualified win in the Bell Centre.
Let's get to the explosions.
They came early, late and often. Chinese Democracy opened with a guitarist (either DJ Ashba or Richard Fortus) riffing atop the drum/keyboard riser, Axl running out in pin-striped shirt, jeans and fedora as the pyro went off. The stuttering guitar of Welcome to the Jungle brought the crowd up, Rose striking his fire-eater pose with
the mic. It's So Easy brought more kabooms, bassist Tommy Stinson taking backing vocals. Still, there was a sense of much to live up to, or live down.
After Mr. Brownstone, Axl said "I think I recognize some of you... yeah, that's right. That's right."
It might be reading too much into the ballad that followed - Sorry - but who can blame us?
During Live and Let Die, you noticed he was beefier (but who isn't?).
During Street of Dreams, his Bruce-anthem move, you could finally confirm that either the screech-yowl had lost some puissance in the lower register, or the mic wasn't picking it up. I'll actually lean toward the latter, because for all Axl's mini-exits during guitar solos (three of 'em, including Ron Bumblefoot Thal's speedfingers Pink Panther) for quick offstage shirt-changes (about six of 'em), his energy never flagged.
And incredibly, neither did his humour. You know what's funny? Those snake-hipped moves and stomps seemed fun rather than angry now.
You know what else is funny? The story Axl told about being chased by cops and mistaken for Kid Rock while trying to get into an MTV Awards ceremony.
At about this point, the pacing seemed off, as Rose began trimming songs from the set list - a good half dozen of them by my sheet.
The late start? Some warning about the Metro closing at 1 a.m.? No idea, but that set list was flipped around. The burbling If the World was a brave choice in this arena/hard rock context, but then, that was the point of all this band-recreation and endless recording, wasn't it?
Better was as remarkable live as on record, revealing Stinson to be the absolute anchor of this band of whiz-bang guitarists. Rose keyed on him, drawing energy or balance from the former Replacements member.
You Could Be Mine brought the first crowd explosion, and justly so.
Sweet Child O' Mine brought the next. And the friendly, lighthearted demeanour proved to be genuine. When he segued from an oblique reference to a ridiculous press rumour about top hats being banned at GNR shows into "You fuckers just like to tear shit up, doncha? That's okay, I get that way myself sometimes," you realized he had just kinda referred to the Big O while somehow bonding with the crowd and blaming no one - including, especially himself. And you were in the presence of stagecraft brilliance.
Naturally, he had to almost blow it. After the whistlin' Patience, after Out Ta Get Me (kablammo!) and Night Train, a ballad-heavy encore had some fans heading for the exits.
When they finally pulled into Paradise City terminus at 1 a.m. (!), all those fans came streaming back to see Axl draping himself in a Fleur-de-Lis flag to the biggest roar of the night, tossing a whistle into the crowd, and kicking and roaring and beaming his way to the front of the stage. The fans had their moment, Axl had his, and it had only taken 17 years and 2 ½ hours.
