Wayne and Garth thought themselves unworthy of Alice Cooper's attention and we're inclined to agree. Appearing on the Brian Conley Show minutes before his entry, the golf-loving metal veteran is showing his age but with collective tongues firmly entrenched within their cheeks, the Wembley crowd is determined to party like it's 1985. Supported by the ever-awful Ronnie James Dio, when the time arrives for the Dark Lord's entry, the all-seated crowd is on its feet in anticipation.
Pyrotechnics aside though, the opening shots mean no one has too much to get excited about. Sure, there are cat-suited whip dancers, dismembered limbs going into a 'transformation chamber' and two-headed babies but with the exception of 'Eighteen' and 'Am I Going Insane?' the first half of the performance is padded out with forgettable stadium rock anthems.
Luckily, redemption is at hand in the shape of a twenty-foot guillotine, and as our hero's head hits the bucket to rapturous applause there's a distinct omen that prime-grade rock is not far off. Unfortunately, as a now headless Cooper dives backstage for a leisurely costume change, we're left with his guitarists engaging in no-holds-barred fret-frottage and, as painful as it sounds, a ten-minute drum solo.
It only takes his severed head to be tossed into the aforementioned transformation chamber and Alice is back, in white top hat and tails, howling his way through the appalling 'No More Mr Nice Guy' and 'It's Hot' before redeeming himself with 'Caught In A Dream'.
As the show draws to a conclusion it's time to wheel out the hits and the hair-metal synth thump of 'Poison' provokes the kind of cheer not seen in Wembley since they closed the stadium. Likewise, 'Under My Wheels' still sounds awesome after all these years. However, the biggest roar is reserved for the unmistakable perm of Brian May, accompanied by the instant satisfaction beat of 'We Will Rock You' segueing perfectly into a life-enhancing 'Schools Out'.
What Alice lacks in quality he makes up for with quantity. Two hours of supremely rehearsed theatrics haven't formed any lasting musical memories but any show where the star is decapitated has to be a good thing. Now if only Ronan Keating would adopt that policy...
