1987.10.06 - Manchester Apollo, Manchester, England

Guns arrived in the UK with fellow LA sleaze rockers Faster Pussycat as support act. I travelled up to cold and rainy Manchester for the opening night at the Apollo. Only a thousand people showed up. The balcony was completely empty. But it didn't matter. Kicking off with It's So Easy, GN'R played a brilliant set, and afterwards they were in buoyant mood backstage. Axl showed me a souvenir given to him by a fan who'd made the long journey down from Scotland for the gig. It was a ticket for a show that never was: Aerosmith plus Guns N' Roses at the Edinburgh Playhouse [20 Years of Appetite, Classic Rock Magazine, July 2007]

Paul Elliott wrote:FUN IN THE DANGER ZONE
THERE'S A plastering of foundation here and there and a few odd silk scarves lovingly wrapped round Taime's mikestand, but Faster Pussycat are only faintly glam in the flesh. They'll never be as pretty as Poison or even, God forbid, Stryper, yet it needn't matter given their ready, bawdy humour and groovy if crude junk riffs.
'Cathouse' was rolling, tacky and bratty, a great opener; 'Babylon' just bared its ass like Beasties on a Dolls fix. But their best shot was the honky-tonkin' 'No Room For Emotion', on which roots showed through the colour dye.
None of this worried Guns N' Roses, though. Seeing them up on a big stage for the first time, it's clear that they've outgrown LA and its stale fashions.
They're around halfway towards becoming a Stones for the '90s; not the latterday relic but the hot, raw, ill-bred R&B band that scratched out Exile, Sticky Fingers and Some Girls. Guns N' Roses have a left hook like AC/DC and a feel for tradition that's as easy and unaffected as Skynyrd. Original? No. Special? Like the very best.
The way Dylan's 'Knockin' On Heaven's Door' swayed out of a haze of cigarette smoke was proof of then-understanding of the workings of great songs. And they have their own too — 'My Michelle', 'Sweet Child O' Mine', 'Paradise City', 'Rocket Queen'.
It can't be denied that Axl's onstage attitude does smack of arrogance, but that's surely a prerequisite for projecting the kind of energy and charisma Guns N' Roses give off.
People can and will make all the cheap and obvious jibes they want, yet behind all the brawling, dog-eating, Star expose bullshit, there's a rock 'n' roll band to treasure.
The single most dangerous band in the world? I don't see it, not with Carnivore around. But then, danger, their hotheaded unpredictability is really only a part of Guns N' Roses.
Not the most dangerous — just close to the best.

IT’S SO SLEAZY
 
GUNS n' ROSES/ FASTER PUSSYCAT
Apollo, Manchester
 
I BROKE out my shades, climbed into the car with Cronin The Snapper and Malcolm The Mad, uncorked the bottle, and off we went, three fools hogging the fast lane to Manchester... where the sun never shines and the sky is just a fat bladder permanently out of control...
 
Four-and-a-half hours later, the bottle's gone, outside the world's turned vodka-tonic, sheets of wet stuff falling like bombs in the road, and suddenly there it is - the Manchester Apollo. On the steps they loll, the mega-city mutants: wax faces, stretch- leather limbs, cancelled eyes, hair like fire, walking effigies with dreams as black as their nail- polish. Brothers in braggadocio, sisters in sleaze, all gathered here in the rain to see the New Gods Of Glitz, those proud Hollyweird types, Faster Pussycat and Guns n' Roses.
 
Already billed in this magazine as 'The Sleaze Double Bill Of The Decade!' by no less a personage than St. Sylvie Simmons, and featuring, according to Mad Mal, 'The Most Dangerous Band In The World!!', this five-date UK tour has a lot to live up to. The third date in Manchester is probably as good a place as any to judge the true frenetic potential of both these bands.
 
It's not an easy audience to work, the Apollo crowd. Unlike the previous night's show at the Rock City in Nottingham (a killer, by all accounts), this is not a stand-up-and-drink-as-much-as- you-like gig. This is a theatre date, policed by thugs in monkey suits ready to throw you out on your ass if you so much as twitch a muscle in the direction of the aisles, and it will take as much graft as craft to make any real mark on the night.
 
Not enough tickets have been sold to reach all the balcony seats, but down in the stalls there's already a good itch going in time for Faster Pussycat's opening 45-minute set. Weak yellow light hits the stage and the band begin pumping into their signature tune, 'Best Cathouse In Town', singer Taime Downe swaying like a cobra behind mirror shades, flirting with the mike, shadowed by the guitars of Greg Steele, Brent Muscat and bassist Eric Stacy, Mark Michals' drums bossing the sound, the band, the stalls, Big Mal and me, impatient just to get into it...
 
It takes all of the first number and most of 'Smash Alley' to put the first good crack in the ice, but by the time the band sink their teeth slowly into 'No Room For Emotion' -- guitars cracking like whips, Taime crooning like a sheep-killing dog, drums rattling like chains - me and the rest of Manchester have turned in our day-tickets and fastened our first big fix on the bosom of the night... From hereon in the ride gets easier, the band working the veins good with hi-octave performances of 'Slip Of The Tongue' (a new number, and one of the best of the set), 'Don't Change That Song', and a real guitars-dangling-round-the- knees-version of 'Bathroom Wall', a song about an old relative of mine, and packing enough back-handed wallop to make me wish I could see these boys out there on their own in a club somewhere. For a support act, Faster Pussycat look like they'd be hell on ten legs as headliners...
 
Me and Mad Mal, we get the halftime whiskies down and make it back to the hall in time to watch Guns n' Roses cranking out the opening brattish chords to 'It's So Easy'. Lead guitarist Slash, his face buried beneath that long mop of dark curls, kick- starts the riff with one punch, singer W. Axl Rose (what a name! Dweezil Zappa eat ya heart out!) moves like a crab for the lip of the stage, eyes slitted, knees tied, head back and howling, and the rest of the band - Izzy Stradlin' (rhythm guitar), Duff McKagan (bass) and Steven Adler (drums) - lean like scarecrows into the beat, teasing out the riffs then nailing them down like dead things.
 
Things get down and dirty through 'Outta Get Me' (which Axl prefaces with a special thanks to the people of Kerrang!, the "greatest f**king rock magazine in the world!" Me and Mad Mal looked at each other and blushed. Then I sent the silly bastard off to get more drink!), 'Mr. Brownstone', 'My Michelle' (the only ballad in the set, which the band only just manage to play with straight faces) and 'Sweet Child Of Mine' (which Axl dedicates to Pandora Peroxide! For Christ's sake, will this boy stop at nothing to get a good review? Mad Mal was practically in tears!).
 
And then the band settle into what will be the show-stopper of the night: 'Rocket Queen'. Unlike the album version, live Guns n' Roses have extended the number by another five minutes or so. Just as Slash comes to the end of another back-arching run across the frets, one boot resting easy on a monitor, Steven Adler's drums begin a long-rattle beat. The guitars wink out and the rest of the band fade into the wings, the drums taking over.
 
Then Izzy appears by Steven's side on the drum riser, a pair of sticks in his hands, and begins hammering home some beats of his own; Duff is suddenly there too, at one side of the stage, rapping it out with a pair of snares. Axl swaggers out from the shadows clutching the bass, pulling on it, and Slash sidles up to the spotlight and lets it all come down in a s**train of bad- minded guitar breaks that send the tingles running down the back of my neck like a cold sweat.
 
'Welcome To The Jungle' received the loudest applause of the night, the band really shifting the gears now, their pulse strong, like a slap in the kisser... 'Paradise City' ended the set right: Slash striding around the edge of the footlights like some kind of bastardised Jimmy Page, commanding your complete attention; Axl all spastic angular gestures and tripped-out Beverly Hills aggression; strobelights turned full on until it felt like they would fry your brain.
 
The encore-the only encore of a 65-minute set, which is taking the trash aesthetic a bit too far, dontcha think? - was a rude and raunchy stab at that bad old Aerosmith moonstomper, 'Mama Kin'. And boss, it wuz good!
 
I haven't felt so unclean in ages. Sometimes you've just got to get some dirt underneath your fingernails. And right now Guns n' Roses and Faster Pussycat are some of the best soil around. One touch I had, and I'm hooked.
 
You will be too if you're not careful...      
 
MICK WALL