Fozzy and Soil at The White Rabbit, Plymouth - review
Fozzy and Soil
The White Rabbit
One night only
FOZZY frontman Chris Jericho called Plymouth a real rock city when I interviewed him the other week – and judging by the heaving sweat-pit that was the White Rabbit during his headline-sharing gig with Soil, he's not mistaken.
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With most of the rock gigs I've been to recently being so sparsely attended you could had driven a Ford Ka around the dance floor without clipping anyone, it was a pleasure to see so many people risking brain damage by head banging like they were trying to nut a front door open.
Fashions come and go, but heavy metal, like the little black dress, will always be there, adapting with changing tastes.
And so, both Fozzy and Soil came to Plymouth, and brought forth hundreds of fans hungry for the glory days of nu metal, which I understand were sometime around the start of the millennium, when Soil's debut album Scars shifted more than a million CDs.
It was also at about that time that Chris Jericho traded his spandex for a plaid shirt and a pair of Aviator shades and clotheslined WWF wrestling for a career in intense bellowing.
Judging by his Plymouth performance, he made a wise choice. Fozzy seem to me, admittedly someone who knows as much about nu metal as you could scrawl on a pair of Chris's old briefs, a pretty tuneful and turbo charged outfit, as tight as Chris' six pack if not his shorts.
And the man who once stared down the Undertaker, stood toe-to-toe with the Rock, hasn't gained any ring-rustiness, urging his audience, eliciting chants of "Y2J", and even swinging from the rafters.
Soil also delighted, with original, and diminutive, leader Ryan McCombs back on mic, the pit was turned into something primeval, a horde mouthing along to every word.
McCombs had spent several years fronting Drowning Pool, and, judging by his plaid shirt and baseball cap, possibly driving his own tour truck, but is now back to belt out his band's brand of fuel-injected southern rock.
It's a sound exemplified by show-closer, their ebullient take on Seventies school disco classic Black Betty, the lyrics of which neatly summed up the White Rabbit crowd: the damn thing gone wild.