The production of a Hard Rock edition was always going to require some sacrifice in the bodily areas of eardrum and liver. Exercise of the intellect seemed less likely, however, until an examination of the month’s gig schedules revealed a rare coming-together of some of metal’s brainiest and proggiest acts, in London, over the course of a single week.

With shows by Chrome Hoof, Porcupine Tree, Opeth and Dream Theater promising performances of Mahlerian scale and opacity, we decided to warm up with something much less challenging and, quite possibly, much more fun. We went to see Michael Schenker (pictured) at The Underworld.

Schenker is arguably the greatest hard rock guitarist of his generation, and his is a generation that includes Eddie Van Halen, Neil Schon, Alex Lifeson and anybody who played heavy metal between Led Zeppelin’s fourth album and Slipknot’s first. Spells in the Scorpions and UFO were followed by a couple of great albums with his own band, a couple of middling albums with his own band, a couple of shockers with various people and a spectacularly authentic rock star dive into his own personal drink / drugs / money-grabbing-oriental-wife hell. He should look terrible and play even worse, but he doesn’t. He’s brilliant.

With Gary Barden, the singer from the Michael Schenker Group’s most productive years, and a veteran line-up in tow, a blind member of the audience (sold out, naturally), would have been forgiven for thinking they were listening to the arena-filling Schenker of the early 80s, so effortlessly fluid is his playing, so cleansed of unnecessary adornment, so... tasteful.

Great pop metal songs from his best solo years - ‘On and On’, ‘Let Sleeping Dogs Lie’ - fill the bulk of a set which closes, inevitably and appropriately, with storming versions of the classic songs he wrote for UFO, ‘Doctor, Doctor’ and the still sublime ‘Rock Bottom’.

To The Barbican, then, for the ten-piece, generically unclassifiable collective that is Chrome Hoof, sharing a bill tonight with French prog jazz extremists Magma, who needn’t detain us here, given their lack of genuine Hard Rock credentials. Chrome Hoof, however were born out of Midlands Doom Metallers Cathedral, whose Smee brothers form the nucleus of both bands. Anonymously clad, as ever, in shimmery druid’s cloaks, the Hoof’s ensemble of conventional rock band augmented by a brass section, violin, extra percussion and keyboards, tended toward the less aggressive end of their repertoire tonight, perhaps in deference to Magma’s jazzed-up audience and to JP Massiera, the Johnny Holliday of the French avant-garde, for whom they acted as house band.

Impossible to pin down but they do play - call them what you will - riffs, repeated figures, whatever, that hint at the band’s heavy roots. But tonight we hear a sophisticated melange of jazz chords, irregular time signatures, ambient soundscapes and 60s minimalism. The effect is Math Rock segueing into syncopated techno. It’s insanely theatrical and all sung in the language of the planet Kobaia.

So there.

Back to Earth - to the English suburbs, in fact - for Porcupine Tree, well brought-up middle-class boys from the home counties and, consequently, touted as heirs to Genesis and the Floyd. Opening the show (another sell-out) with the whole of disc one from their unashamedly conceptual new album The Incident, Steven Wilson’s ensemble demonstrate their willingness to temper their luxuriantly orchestrated, reflective pieces (‘songs’ is the wrong word) with moments of visceral power rock. Atmospherically we’re in the neighbourhood of ‘Supper’s Ready’, but hard, doomy passages invite comparison with Rush circa 2112. And, what’s more, they’re good enough to live with the comparison. ‘Is anyone going to see Opeth tomorrow?’ asked Wilson. The affirmative roar encouraged him to ask: ‘More to the point, is anyone here not going to see Opeth tomorrow?’ We went to see Opeth with everyone else.

The Swedish Prog Metallers are sharing Wembley Arena this evening with American Prog Metallers Dream Theater, both riding on the success of strong new albums. Opeth were better.

Sticking to shorter numbers for their hour-long set (they save the15-minute tunes for headline appearances) they present a satisfyingly meaty, complex set opening, courageously, with a ballad. Mikael Åkerfeldt proves a fantastically urbane host, too, reminiscing about early gigs at The The White Horse Wycombe. He probably speaks better English than me. He certainly goes ‘Woaaaargh!’ better than me.

Dream Theater, too, were good, playing all the fan faves and a good lump of new album Black Clouds and Silver Linings but, I dunno, they try just a bit too hard. They enjoy dressing up a bit too much; drummer / founder member Mike Portnoy has two drum kits welded together; there are keytar solos from Jordan Rudess; and they run around a shiny set that might have been designed by Athena in 1983.

Perhaps it was the juxtaposition of their performance with that of Opeth - substantial, self-deprecating - that made Dream Theater appear a bit eager to please. In fairness, full use was made of that ridiculous drum kit when sticksmen from the evening’s other bands were persuaded to leave the groupies alone and join in a drum quartet. But, given the strength of their recent recorded material, a less-is-more approach would have worked better for me.

So, in summary: Prog has risen, the Lord hath looked upon Prog and has seen that it is good. And so hath we.

Richard Hodkinson
Photo: londontourpix