I’ll begin with a disclaimer. This review is packed so full of late nineties wrestling references that those of you who foolishly abstained from watching oiled, steroided superhumans engaging in protracted gay-offs would probably be best just skipping the whole thing & enjoying the shiny pictures.
Chris Jericho is the world’s 4th grand slam champion, a masterful, girl-punching heel & he once pooped himself on a place in Mexico. Unfortunately for all involved, Fozzy’s set could only reasonably compare with one of those sparkling accolades. Around himself, he has recruited a musical nWo of low to mid-carders elevated above their station by Jericho’s, or Mongoose McQueen as he prefers to be known on stage, mere involvement. Recruiting almost entirely from nineties metal stalwarts Stuck Mojo, it’s at least a relief that they didn’t attempt to rehash their Southern rap sound. This is most likely due to the fact that Jericho is well aware that he could never top Macho Man Randy Savage’s 2003 wrestler to rapper transition. No, thankfully they stick to a straight forward American hard rock template.
Blasting through fan favourites Martyr No More, Crucify Yourself & Enemy only serve to highlight Rich Ward & Rick Beato’s respective production skills. Jericho’s live voice is the sonic equivalent of a David Arquette WCW Heavyweight title reign & the Y2J chants between every song are proof, as if it were needed, that the 200 strong crowd are here for his wrestling ability more than his song writing. In response, we get the same tired stage banter he’s been rolling out all tour. He really should have cut a blinding promo about how the people of Edinburgh are brain-dead hicks who don’t deserve his presence before putting one of the front row in a Walls of Jericho. That would have been more enjoyable.
Paraskavedekatriaphobia, apparently about Jericho’s fear of looking more like Gordon Ramsay every day, was the climax of the set allowing Ward a chance to pull out his best budget Zakk Wylde impressions as the tempo does a lot to hide the straining vocals. Unfortunately we don’t get their 14 minute prog-epic, Wormwood which is definitely the best thing they’ve ever done.
Finishing, as always, with a cover of Freewheel Burning so badly mangled that even Priest won’t want it back, one thing is for sure. Fozzy’s albums have shown a linear improvement elevating them above the status of novelty. Their live show is a different story. I blame Vince Russo. It’s almost certainly his fault. Then again, if this stops Suck Mojo putting out another fucking album, all I can say is “Go Fozzy, Go Go!”