Steel Panther @ Bataclan Paris - February 15th, 2019

Once again I’m late to the party. I’ve been meaning to check out those guys ever since they turned their week-end side-gig as L.A.’s best metal cover band into a bona fide international touring act with original material and sol-out shows the world over.

After a short set by opener Gus G., a DJ played a few tunes to put the crowd in the mood, and after the crowd sang along to Bohemian Rhapsody he announced the stars of the evening… And a few minutes later, the lights dimmed and four colourful figures entered the stage.

I was a bit skeptical at first as sopho-moronic lyrics and lowbrow comedy routine aren’t exactly my cup of tea. So I was fully ready to find the whole thing idiotic, crass and vulgar. And I was right: it was all that for sure. But most of all it was tremendous fun.

Holy fucking shit do these guys know how to throw a party. Their choice of covers is on point, of course: Mötley Crüe, Ozzy Osbourne, the Kinks (by way of Van Halen), Def Leppard… And their original material isn’t too shabby either. Modern classics like Fat Girl, Poontang Boomerang, Asian Hooker and Gloryhole do not pale in comparison to their esteemed models.

A staple of Steel Panther’s shows is when they invite some of their attention whoring female fans to disrobe onstage, to the delight of all the male metal virgin nerds in the audience. And of course from that standpoint also they didn’t disappoint.

The band goes through all the tropes of hair-metal excess, but all of this is of course tongue in cheek (whose tongue is in whose cheek will remain unanswered). But just because it’s comedy doesn’t mean that it’s not genuine: their love for this type of music is obvious, and all of these guys are really proficient on their instruments (even though there are loads of backing tapes).

Stick Zadinia (I never got the pun until I heard it out loud during the band introductions) is a very solid drummer, he’s no Ginger Baker but you don’t need to play in 33/8 to make the ladies dance.

Lexxi Foxx does what he is supposed to do: bang away on the root note and look pretty, and he does that very well well. In fact he readjusts his hair with Aquanet every chance he gets, pouts harder than Bret Michaels and checks his lipstick in his monogrammed mirror between every song. 

Singer Michael Starr (actually Ralph Saenz, who briefly fronted L.A. Guns in the early nineties) is a cross between David Lee Roth, Bret Michaels (again) and Vince Neil, with one big difference: he can actually sing.

But the star is guitarist Satchel (really Russ Parrish, who you might know from Rob Halford’s post-Judas Priest band Fight), a real guitar hero who plays dirty riffs and awesomely tasteless, face-melting guitar solos.

The genre they pay tribute to has been much maligned since grunge came to wipe it off the musical landscape, and sometimes for good reason. But anything that still brings this much joy to people thirty years after it’s been rendered obsolete, anything that makes people young and old want to party and dance, anything this fun and loud and obnoxious, anything that leaves so many enduring, classic albeit silly songs should not be looked down upon.

Sure, Steel Panther aren’t exactly PC, and they’re not exactly PG. Sure, they deal in fluff metal, bubblegum rock, cheap thrills and nostalgia. Their songs and their shows are not going to change your life and to be honest I wouldn’t enjoy them in large doses. But they are the most fun you can have without actually living the lifestyle they depict and lampoon so thank Lemmy that these guys are out there, playing this awesomely cheesy music, waving the glam metal flag high and fighting for our right to fuck all night and party all day.