Motley Crüe + Poison + New York Dolls at First Midwest Bank Amphitheatre | Photo gallery + live review

The 1980s have been “back” for quite some time, though not necessarily the '80s inhabited by Mötley Crüe and Poison. Hair metal might be fodder for Ribfest cover band setlists, bad Halloween costumes and drunken karaoke renditions. But not since the first Bush presidency has the genre been connected with electrifying performances.

But last Friday, a bunch of guys nearing or past the half-century mark, took the stage at the First Midwest Bank Amphitheater, painting themselves as battle-scarred rock and roll veterans who’ve survived the worst (drug addictions, Kurt Cobain) and come out, if not on top, at least alive. And in many ways, they outdid their younger, skinnier, less sober selves. (Unfortunately, traffic between downtown and Tinley Park caused me to miss opening act the New York Dolls, progenitor of both headliners, who marked 40 years since their debut album.)  

Draped behind Poison’s Bret Michaels, strutting around in an unfortunate cowboy hat and jeans studded with crosses, a 25th anniversary skull print banner read “1986-2011.” The dates weren’t an epitaph to a lifeless band, however. Anthems like “Fallen Angel,” “Nothin’ But A Good Time” and “Look What the Cat Dragged In” came off sharp and fresh. Guitarist C.C. DeVille, hair nearly as big as ever, ripped through solo parts and belted gang vocal harmonies as if the Cold War were still on. Everyone could’ve done without the tired covers of “Your Mama Don’t Dance” and “We’re An American Band,” not to mention the self-indulgent guitar and drum solos—but generally the band gave off a genuine air of gratitude.  “I want to say thanks for all the prayers and well wishes when I got sick last year,” Michaels, 48, announced, referencing a series of health problems he suffered last year, including a brain hemorrhage, a “warning stroke” and the discovery by doctors of a hole in his heart.  

Mötley Crüe, meanwhile, celebrated 30 years with a display of pyrotechnics and eardrum-shattering explosions that they only could’ve wished for when the members were in their twenties and bassist Nikki Sixx was setting himself on fire with pyro gel at the Whisky A Go Go in Los Angeles.   I was close enough to see the paunch singer Vince Neil was hiding under a paint-splattered shirt and black vest. But he prowled the stage with gusto. Mick Mars, suffering from chronic arthritis of his spine, would hobble back to his microphone stand after soloing. However fragile, the guitarist still looked like a sci-fi movie monster, Cousin It meets the Grim Reaper, and his guitar sounded just as mean. We were given an unfortunate reminder of Tommy Lee’s dabbling in hip-hop with his occasional call-and-response pleas: “Can I get a ‘Hell yeah’?” Yet the lean-looking drummer hit as hard as ever, and took his spinning drum kit to another level, introducing a set of skins fixed on a looped roller coaster track that rotates upside down.

Yep, if you squinted just enough, it was the ’80s again. There was one big giveaway that three decades had passed: During the power ballads—Poison’s “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” and the Crüe’s “Home Sweet Home”—the audience didn’t pull out lighters; they held up cellphone cameras.