Waiting for Slash

I'm in a large black room with all the ambience of an aircraft carrier, listening to five dad rockers playing what sounds like the inside of Bryan Adam's head after one portion of poteen too many. Well, it started with the intro to Summer of 69, and the chorus is Help by the Beatles, but it doesn't really matter what this quintet of receding-hairline metallers do; everyone is really waiting for The Slash to come onstage.

I mean, I loved his work with The Guns And The Roses back in the Eighties, but not so much that I need to put up with five white guys singing 'White Power' before he starts up. Ah well, such is the fate of the support band. To perform unloved in a darkened room to a crowd of disinterested onlookers.

In about half an hour I expect they'll wander off, The Slash will come on and we'll be treated to a medley of hits from The Appetite For Destruction, The Use Your Illusion, and Spaghetti Incident. At least, I hope so. If The Slash insists on playing anything that he's composed in the last fifteen years, I'll kick my television in and send him the bill.

After I've gone home, that is.

And kicked my television in. That is.

And managed to find some stamps.

That is.

(I wouldn't want you to think I wasn't planning this out carefully.)

On careful reflection, I've realised there were only four people in the support act, not five.  But Dave And The Anonymous Daves somehow sounded like five people.  Trapped somewhere in the early Nineties, poor chaps.