The Dead Daisies rolled into Islington Assembly Hall on a Wednesday night and turned it into a proper rock show. I have seen them seven times now and it finally clicked. This isn’t a project. It isn’t a novelty. It isn’t a revolving door of hired guns. This is a good fucking band.
The lights dropped and the crowd was already restless. From the first riff the room shook. Doug Aldrich stood at centre stage like a man possessed, bending notes until they screamed for mercy. John Corabi prowled the front line, sharp and dirty, spitting out lyrics like a lifer who refuses to slow down. Tommy Clufetos took the spotlight halfway through with a drum solo that felt more like a demolition job than a performance. David Lowy kept the engine running, steady and locked in, then surprised everyone by stepping up on “Get a Haircut.” Michael Devin glued it all together, his bass lines heavy enough to make the floorboards rattle.
This was not a polite show. It was sweat dripping from the ceiling, guitars turned up too loud, and a crowd that wanted more every time the lights threatened to dim. Lasers cut through the chaos and the songs landed like punches. Some of them already feel like staples of the rock canon.
The Dead Daisies are not here to save rock and roll. That job was never theirs. They are here to play it, loud and unrelenting, the way it is meant to be played.
