Review: Europe, O2 Academy

Here’s a sign of the times. An all-female band rock their way through a well-received set without feeling the urge to cake themselves in slap or play on their sexuality. Nobody shouts “Show us yer tits, love!” Later, the headlining act’s disgustingly well-preserved, tight-trousered male frontman is greeted by a shrill, somewhat inebriated female chorus of “Get ’em off, Joey!” Progress toward gender equality? You decide.

It’s not often you find the Academy packed at 7.15pm, but there’s quite a buzz surrounding young Scottish trio The Amorettes, fronted by sisters Hannah and Heather McKay. Their PR guff is eager to encourage comparisons with The Runaways, but they’re actually more accomplished than that, sounding rather like the perennially under-valued Girlschool channelling AC/DC. If the mainstream press notice them, they’ll doubtless have to endure all the usual tiresome hand-wringing debate surrounding female musicians. But all this audience wants to know is whether or not they rock. The answer is most assuredly yes they do.

What to make of Black Star Riders, aka the band formerly known as Thin Lizzy? Many of us who had the privilege of seeing the Phil Lynott-fronted Lizzy in their glory years were left feeling distinctly uncomfortable by guitarist Scott Gorham’s decision to soldier on with a new line-up. So the announcement of a name change to record new material came as quite a relief. But here’s the problem. Opener Bound For Glory sounds so Lizzy-esque that it might have been lifted from Bad Reputation. Obviously, you wouldn’t expect Gorham to change his style overnight, but most of BSR’s songs are heavily indebted to his former band, the best of them echoing the Celtic-tinged sounds of Lizzy’s Black Rose era. What’s more, a good half of the set is taken up with Lizzy classics, from Emerald to the inevitable The Boys Are Back in Town. It’s undeniably thrilling to hear these great songs again, and the audience respond accordingly, but you can’t help feeling that, with two albums in the bag, they really ought to be moving on. On the plus side, although the current band is stuffed with competent metal journeymen whose CVs include stints with Ratt, Megadeth and Alice Cooper, Lynott’s fellow Irishman Ricky Warwick is by far the most able replacement Gorham could possibly have recruited. Sporting what appears to be one of Ian Anderson’s old codpieces, Warwick has charisma to burn, as well as being an accomplished and versatile songwriter. “When I was growing up in Belfast, I used to listen to the Friday Rock Show and dream of being in a band that got played on Radio One,” he tells us. “What I didn’t expect was that at the age of 48 I’d be in a band that gets played on Radio Two.” Cue: Finest Hour, Radio Two’s current Single of the Week, no less.

After their lucrative cornering of the Swedish export market in hair’n’teeth was scuppered by the sullen miseryguts of grunge, Europe‘s painstaking reinvention as a credible hard rock band has now yielded an unbroken run of three classy albums. But they get off to a slow start with the title track from newie War of Kings, which finds Joey Tempest sounding somewhat croaky of voice. If he’s feeling a tad under the weather, there’s no other sign of it, as the old ham poses like a pro each time a camera is pointed in his direction. Mind you, he could usefully work on updating his patter. He’s done the “funny Bristol accent” thing on the band’s last three visits.

Praise You provides a welcome showcase for unassuming guitarist John Norum, whose talents have often been overlooked. And Europe finally hit their stride with the muscular triple-whammy of Sign of the Times, Riches to Rags and Firebox, before yielding to the inevitable with the none-more-’80s Rock the Night, whose Poundstretcher Bon Jovi chorus remains preposterous yet still perversely enjoyable. Much parping of keyboards heralds the arrival of That Song, which has everyone bellowing along like buffoons. But at least we’re finally spared the sickly Carrie – surely the world’s most godawful power ballad.