A multi-award-winning experience of what it’s like to live in constant fear, from rookie Hungarian director László Nemes
Red Hot Chili Peppers : Glasgow SECC
Long may they grunt
In other mitts, such wilful muddling of old and new would've suggested a smidgen of desperation. But though there may be little grace in their blue-eyed frat-funk, the Peppers have a humour, sincerity and soul that's all but extinct in stadium rock's vapid vaccuum. What's more, it's impossible not to warm to their enduring sense of the absurd. Anthony Kiedis, forty going on fourteen, pummels the air and pouts like camp gym instructor.
Flea, face like a squeezed grapefruit, violently bums his bass while John Frusciante, essentially a bale of hay squeezed into a pair of pyjamas, itches and scratches at his guitar like he's got Jimmy Page stuffed down his jockstrap. Their modus operandi may have mellowed with age but, clearly, the Peppers remain rock pigs at heart. Long may they grunt.
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