Review & Photography by Manny Manson for MPM
It’s difficult to overstate the cultural impact W.A.S.P. had when they first emerged from the gutters of the Sunset Strip in the early 1980s, a time when glam and grit collided with rebellion and rage. Where many bands dabbled in sleaze or posturing, W.A.S.P. sharpened it into a knife and held it to society’s throat. Led by the uncompromising Blackie Lawless, a one-man revolution in platform boots and blood, they weaponised the outrage that ensued.
The band’s self-titled debut W.A.S.P. hit shelves in August 1984 via Capitol Records, seething with raw power, grotesque theatre, and razor-edge riffs. That record, forever immortalised by its original blood-soaked track Animal (F**k Like a Beast), which was famously omitted from the U.S. pressing after waves of protest, gave us now-iconic cuts like I Wanna Be Somebody, Love Machine, Hellion, and On Your Knees. It was filthy, brash, and utterly brilliant. Blackie’s snarl became the voice of every misfit kid chained to suburbia, and Chris Holmes’ divebombing guitar fury lit the fuse.
Then came The Last Command in November 1985, a more polished but still relentlessly heavy affair, featuring the anthemic Wild Child and outlaw rocker Blind in Texas. The album took W.A.S.P. from clubs to coliseums, making them legitimate contenders in the metal hierarchy. Inside the Electric Circus followed in October 1986, a left-turn that saw Blackie swap bass for rhythm guitar and navigate a circus-themed concept album that, while more melodic, still had fire, especially in its rousing title track and covers like I Don’t Need No Doctor, originally by Ashford & Simpson, now completely unhinged by violating W.A.S.P.’s treatment.
By 1989, the gloves were off. The Headless Children (April 1989) remains one of the most socially aware records in metal’s arsenal, a bitter reckoning with war, hypocrisy, and addiction. Tracks like The Real Me (a Who cover taken to the gallows), Forever Free, and the title track stood as a complete reinvention, proof that Blackie Lawless and W.A.S.P. were far more than fake blood and flaming codpieces. This was artistry cloaked in an arsenal of heavy artillery.
1992 brought The Crimson Idol, Blackie’s magnum opus, a concept album chronicling the tragic rise and fall of Jonathan Steel, a rock star made and murdered by fame. Though it wasn’t part of tonight’s show, its legacy haunts everything that followed. From Kill.Fuck.Die (1997) through to Babylon (2009) and the towering Golgotha (2015), W.A.S.P. have never softened their blow, nor have they ever compromised their mission.
And so it was, four decades on from the debut, that we gathered at Nottingham’s Rock City for the Album One Alive tour, celebrating that raw-boned first record in full, with a few delicious detours thrown in for the faithful. A sweaty Sunday night. A packed Rock City. And the kind of atmosphere that only true believers know: denim, studs, anticipation, and the feral scent of something dangerous deliciously brewing in the ether.
When the house lights finally dropped and that blood-red stage lights strobed into life, it was like being pulled into a time machine built from Marshall stacks and outlaw intent. You could imagine the non-existent curtain flamboyantly flying back and to reveal the haunting grin of Blackie, still towering, still godlike, still draped in leather and snarl. Behind him, Mike Duda thundered in on bass with nearly three decades of tenure behind him, the ever-reliable Doug Blair lit up his fretboard with equal parts elegance and carnage, and drummer extraordinaire Aquiles Priester laid down the kind of assault that would rattle bones well into the next county let alone the next town.
They kicked off, as they absolutely had to, with “I Wanna Be Somebody,” the battle cry of the disillusioned masses. Released in 1984, it was the song that made MTV both wet their pants and reach for the replay button. And tonight, it exploded. The opening chord of struck like Prometheus’s lightning bolt. It was halftime for the rebels, rolled back forty years to 1984, Blackie snarled, “I wanna be somebody,” and the crowd responded not as spectators, but converts, every voice merging into a single volatile attack, the chorus, “I wanna be somebody! Be somebody soon!” was screamed by every throat in the building, including mine. This wasn’t simply a nostalgic moment; it felt more like a call to arms.
Before they carried on Blackie address the crowd about “That Song” saying that it would not be played despite heavy conversations to the contrary. The Song? “Animal (F**k like a Beast)” of course. They then effortlessly dropped “Love Machine”, a song written by Lawless’s previous band Circus Circus, but never recorded; complete with its jungle‑beat swagger and dissonant guitars meshing black comedy and overblown disco‑metal pomp and sleazy chorus, it was delivered with venomous joy. The rhythm section haunted your bones, the guitars sounded bigger than buildings. Doug Blair coaxed fire and lightning strikes from his strings while the cacophony built into an onslaught, meanwhile, Blackie prowled the back of the stage like a demented preacher. Every note dripped in decadence, but it was tight, surgical, even. This wasn’t a Karaoke band. This was a band re-possessing their legacy, showing they’re still a “Force Majeure”.
“The Flame” then rose from the gloom, wrenching dangerously, its melodic concussion seemingly striking terror. This is one of those deep cuts that doesn’t always get its due. More a lover’s lament than a previous war-cry. Tonight, it felt renewed, charged with a commanding desperation and drama, like facing a void before stepping off, that elevated it beyond its original studio form. Blackie’s voice, ragged yet powerful, with a tender brutality, each word burning, each word scraping every syllable with purpose, while the light show threw their shadows across the crowd like forever spectral phantoms.
Then came “B.A.D:” an acronym for? I’ll let you figure it out, this is one of those snarling, under-loved beasts that works ten times better live. It’s a mid-tempo freight train full of groove and snarled defiance. The riff hits like a chain-wrapped fist, as the chorus lacerates the room. The interplay between Duda and Blair was pure electricity, and Priester’s drumming didn’t just drive it, it threw it down the stairs like a crash test dummy but then made it dance.
They then seamlessly slide into Lawless’s theatrical sneer that is “School Daze,” perhaps the most tongue-in-cheek anthem on the debut, brought with it that twisted mix of high school rebellion and grotesque theatre that W.A.S.P. made their calling card. Blackie’s vocal phrasing here was biting and sardonic, like a demon doing Alice Cooper karaoke, and the audience howled back every juvenile lyric like we were all suspended in 1984.
Then it came time for a touch of sentiment as “Hellion” exploded into view, a track that opened the debut album and still hits you in the chest like a friggin’ juggernaut. Its unrelenting pace and neck-breaking double-bass pulse had the floor shaking and your rib cage rattling like teeth in a tincan. The screams, the solos, the sheer bombast, it was all there, preserved in spite and sweat. Blair’s guitar solo during this one felt like a transmission from another planet as it tore through the lithosphere and the back of your skull simultaneously.
The oppressive heat was cooled with “Sleeping (In the Fire)” it brought the tempo down but ramped the emotion up to eleven. A ballad born from nightmares; it hissed rather than stomped. Arguably, one of the most haunting pieces in W.A.S.P.’s arsenal, it has always stood apart, part ballad, part nightmare lullaby. Tonight, it was delivered with such aching gravity that the room seemed to fold in on itself. Blackie poured pain into every line: “Taste the Love / The Lucifer’s Magic Makes You Numb / The Passion and the pain Are One / You’re Sleeping in the Fire…”
Swiftly jolted back to reality came like a kick to the groin as they unrolled “On Your Knees” a command from the albums final chapters full of Blackie Lawless’s vicious delivery and grinding guitars, and then “Tormentor” followed on in rapid succession, pure savage rock ‘n’ roll, venom dripping off every riff and drum rattle, this was no frills, just pedal-down velocity and sharp-fanged delivery. It rattled like metal chains in a Berserkers dungeon. These were the moments where Blackie spat his lyrics like they were actual cobra venom, and the band followed suit with sonic aggression to match. Every riff clawed at the throat; every beat simply demanded submission; the crowd were bouncing fists pumping singing as if their life depended on it.
They closed the main set by summoning up “The Torture Never Stops,” Pure theatre, Pure spectacle, a finale born of leather, latex, and lasting menace. Blackie didn’t just sing it, he summoned it, like some sacred warlock dragging up our darkest, nightmarish impulses. The lights turned hellish red, not for the first time, strobes flashed in time with Priester’s drum fills, and by the end, the very partisan crowd weren’t just cheering, they were howling, baying for more.
But the night wasn’t over. Not by a long shot, with the original album being just over 38 minutes in length, we had more stinging treats in store.
After a thin second of darkness suffocated the room, the band returned alone under a flickering amber bulb. The much-anticipated encore began with a medley that made us question how W.A.S.P. managed to fit so many monsters into one monstrous climax. “Inside the Electric Circus,” the title track from their 1986 third album, came first, all pomp and stomping grandeur. It felt like stepping into a cursed carnival, all barkers and blades and spotlight damnation, full of sweat-soaked pomp, carnival clang and bitter aftermath. That segued into “I Don’t Need No Doctor,” the 1966 Ashford & Simpson track made infamous again by Humble Pie, and taken to absolute chaos by W.A.S.P. on Live… in the Raw in 1987. Tonight, it was like being electrocuted while grinning, twisted with dissonant intensity and abandoned, reckless speed. That jam then gave way to “Scream Until You Like It,” originally recorded for the Ghoulies II soundtrack in 1987, one of those songs that encapsulates all that is absurd and glorious about metal in the ‘80s. Blackie roared through it like a deranged game-show host. It ruled, it was but a glam-drenched horror riff pumped full of adrenaline, Lawless screaming lines like curses, the baying crowd yelling back in unison, Fang-tastic
But we weren’t done yet, for that was only the first half the “encore.”
The next medley surged with “The Real Me,” a furious and frantic cover of The Who classic, first found on The Headless Children in ’89. Here, it was played with vicious precision, Doug Blair absolutely shredded the solo while the band kept the low-end chug heavy as iron, it had been stripped apart and re assembled as a full-scale industrial assault. “Forever Free” followed, a power ballad that stood as W.A.S.P. ‘s heartfelt tribute to fallen friends and fleeting fame, a rare glimpse into Blackie’s vulnerable side, and a track that resonated hard with anyone who’s ever lost something they couldn’t replace. “The Headless Children,” the album’s thunderous title track, emerged next, part gallop, part dirge, all apocalypse. Blackie spat the verses like prophecy, while the guitars howled behind him. It was, quite frankly, majestic.
And then after a pause for effect, came the final two heavy hitting body blows.
“Wild Child,” from The Last Command (1985), was a moment of sheer rock perfection. Still swaggering. Still defiant. Still cooler than any living thing has a right to be. Blackie grinned through the first verse, he knew this one still teared out throats and smashed heads violently against walls. And through it all, the audience sang it like gospel. It didn’t feel old. It felt eternal.
They closed with the country-tinged swagger of “Blind in Texas,” also from The Last Command, and by this point, Rock City was in full saloon-mode. Every line was bellowed, full of howls and harmonised chorus’s, every beat felt like it could tear the roof off. And when the fire ended, abrupt, ecstatic, sweat-soaked, it didn’t feel like the end of a gig. It felt like the end of a historic battle. The band took their bows, threw picks, raised fists, slammed hearts, and Blackie stood centre-stage one last time, the light catching his face, still the bastard preacher of metal’s dark side.
Tonight, W.A.S.P. summoned on the gods and provoked a legacy. Blackie reminded us that history was being written as the debut album was being played live in its entirety, Okay they played all bar that one song, was it missed? Hell no! The night was much more than that singularity, the band wove each track into the next, from anthem to nightmare to sermon, a single, musical tapestry of vengeance, theatre, and steel. Blackie Lawless, at nearly seventy, still prowled like a mad priest drunk on truth and distortion. His past wasn’t dusty, it was bruising, it was alive, it was unapologetic. Four decades in, W.A.S.P. haven’t mellowed. They’ve honed. They’ve endured. And tonight wasn’t simply about reliving the past. It was more a ritualistic summoning of it back to life and confirming that it still has an extremely vicious set of razor-sharp claws. Album One isn’t just alive, tonight it’s proven it’s immortal.
Blackie Lawless didn’t just remind us why. He made damn sure we’d never forget it!
