Chris Shiflett @ Classic Grand, Glasgow, 5 Apr

Despite the Foo Fighters guitarist's attempts, and his band's faultless playing, tonight's Chris Shiflett show is mediocre at best, musically lacking character beyond a dusty CD you’d find in your dad’s car

Live Review by Bethany Davison | 10 Apr 2019

The Classic Grand is a peculiar setting to find Chris Shiflett – its entrance is dingy, intimidatingly lit by the abrasive flashing neon from the neighbouring arcade. As the lead guitarist of internationally renowned dad-rock legends Foo Fighters, one might expect a grander venue.

The atmosphere is as underwhelming as the venue that houses it. Between the musty sea of self-affirming tour T-shirts and at least a fifth of the crowd choosing to sit far from the stage rather than pushing to get as close to Shiflett as possible, it’s clear that most are here on the commodity that he's a member of Foo Fighters, rather than an established solo artist.

As the band drift on stage, Shiflett – his blond surfer locks adorned in a red bandana – storms into The Girl’s Already Gone. The crowd remain dormant: while many faces are brightly lit, there’s barely any movement, never mind singing along. From the outset, it's clear that Shiflett is trying to cast himself into a separate entity from the rest of his career span, sounding musically like a 70s heartrock renaissance band, reminiscent of Bob Seger, above all else.

Despite the nonchalant nature of the crowd, Shiflett is still confident. It seems that the performative transition from passive band member to frontman is exhilarating in its novelty. He finds time to share anecdotes as a prelude to most songs, though his attempts at engaging more personally with the audience fall short. He introduces This Ol’ World as “a celebration song for those of us who aren’t out of our fucking minds” after hesitantly lamenting on both Brexit and Trump. During this, though, the band are lost under dramatically lingering smoke, as if the stage and the set are without correlation. Welcome to Your First Heartbreak sees a continuation of these anecdotes, as Shiflett explains he wrote it in order to give his son better dating advice than his “older brother's crusty stack of porno mags”. Both stories are met with limited degrees of laughter, seeing the gig becoming more tiresome in its graduation.

Even after the bulk of the set has played through, the crowd are still frustratingly lax. Perhaps it's due to their lack of enthusiasm, or Shiflett’s negligence to really stimulate them, but the evening stands as no more than forgettable. While musically, Shiflett and his band play faultlessly, there's a disparity between the heavier edge of their heart-rock soundscape and any sense of passion. The evening is mediocre at best, musically lacking character beyond a dusty CD you’d find in your dad’s car.


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