Iron Maiden @ Manchester Arena, 8 May
The queues for the toilets stretch into the distance. Nearly 20,000 metal-heads cram into the Arena and every one of them nurses a pint. Before Iron Maiden take to the stage, there is drinking to be done. As they have been since the heady days of the emerging new wave of British heavy metal, four decades on headbanging and beer remain the perfect match. Only a cynic would argue that, for much of the Maiden hardcore, expanding waistlines and follicle challenges have been accompanied by an increasing focus on bladder control.
Despite their undoubted appeal to the next generation, cemented by a late 90s allegiance to the nu-metal scene and their influence on a raft of pack-leaders, tonight’s audience is oddly short on youth. A circle pit breaks out intermittently on the rammed floor but this tour, in support of 2015‘s The Book of Souls, attracts those fans of the ‘Hanley Victoria Hall with Queensryche as support’ variety: long in tooth if not (any more) of hair. That record, a ninety minute acknowledgement of the band’s eventual debt to the prog rock movement, cemented their XL sizing. Maiden have always been a big deal on every level, but they began this tour nearly two years ago, flying their own Ed Force One jumbo around the globe, stopping off at arenas, stadiums and festivals, and it still has months to run.
Their home fans have had longer to wait than most, then, and they greet their heroes with volume and affection. “Scream for me, Manchester!” implores Bruce Dickinson, and metal’s most enduring rallying call crushes the pop scene’s limp, ubiquitous “Make some noise". Manchester bellows back its approval. The show’s extended opening is as daft as it is effective. An animated short featuring band mascot Eddie mirroring the album’s lovingly codswallop narrative, as he goes tomb raiding in some vaguely Amazonian setting, pre-empts a one-two of If Eternity Should Fail and Speed of Light. Weighing in at the best part of twenty minutes, the pairing sets the tone for a set-list that favours lengthy over punchy. They continue with a savage Wrathchild from second album Killers but follow immediately with Children of the Damned: a mid-tempo ballad of sorts, typical of their mid-80s output and a precursor to a frustrating mid-set slump.
“Don’t worry”, says Dickinson, applying reassurance as he introduces songs from the latest album – “we’re gonna be here for a while...” And they play for an ear-splitting – even up in the rafters, it is uncommonly and reassuringly LOUD – two hours, but the second half eventually becomes a trial. For every Iron Maiden (still a terrific reminder of their early punk leanings and a sterling showcase for the Maiden ‘gallop’, as Steve Harris and Nicko McBrain pummel their instruments), the set slows for a mood piece (The Book of Souls) or anthem (Blood Brothers – a baffling inclusion).
Picture: Priti Shikotra
Even older choices are in dire need of a rest. The Trooper triggers the pit but in 2017 there is surely cooler showmanship available to a man as thoughtful as Dickinson than waving a tattered Union Jack around. 'I need somebody to saaaaaaaave meeeeee!' he screams during The Red and the Black, and you concur, starting to clock omissions that would have maintained intensity levels: Aces High, Where Eagles Dare, Flight of Icarus, These Colours Don’t Run.
Even the staging creaks, the set given a ‘mystical’ touch-up from 2011‘s (superior) The Final Frontier tour. (For simple theatrics, there is still more fun to be had marvelling at guitarist Janick Gers’ pixie-on-acid stage moves). As they drive through Powerslave and The Great Unknown, and as the Manchester crowd take up the refrain from Fear of the Dark (undeservedly super-glued to the setlist), you’re inclined to give Iron Maiden a break.
Sixteen albums in and as adventurous in the studio as they ever were, they survive with integrity intact and with dignity rarely seen at this level. The musicianship is off the scale: the fluidity and invention of some of Adrian Smith‘s playing is breathtaking. Dickinson remains a wily frontman: “Look after yourselves,” he cautions as the floor heaves and a young girl is helped over the barrier after fainting. “You come to an Iron Maiden show, regardless of colour, religion, gender, age, and you leave in one piece.” Even from the top tier, as fans hit the floor, you can see others rush to pick them up.
A closing Wasted Years, as solid a chart-botherer as they ever conjured, closes the set and it’s a potent reminder that when they keep it simple, they dazzle. But for their next album and tour, Iron Maiden should set themselves a new challenge: one based on brevity, and inspired by the underground that spawned them all those years ago. In this age of excess, anyone can throw out a ninety-minute record, but how about one half that length? How about a setlist that, say, excludes songs exceeding five minutes? Now that, for a band so ineffably tied to size and scale, would be a big deal.