It’s the seventh time I’ve seen the band, and I finally get it. The Dead Daisies aren’t a project, a novelty, or some revolving-door experiment. They’re a good fucking band. And at Islington Assembly Hall this week, they proved it in front of a packed house that still believes loud guitars and pounding drums matter.
Doug Aldrich walked out looking healthy and dangerous. Thank the metal gods for that. He is a rare thing now; a proper guitar hero. Not the kind with empty flash or soulless shred, but one who bends every note until it screams. Watching him rip through “Light ’Em Up” and “Mexico” felt like being punched in the chest and grinning through it. He could coast on ego if he wanted. Instead, he plays like it’s the last night on earth.
John Corabi doesn’t just front this band; he drives it. He looks like he’s having the time of his life, and that energy bleeds into every word he sings. His voice was sharp, dirty, and unrelenting, whether tearing through “Long Way to Go,” throwing weight behind “Rise Up,” or dropping it down for an acoustic “Love That’ll Never Be.” He’s not trying to be anyone else. He’s Corabi, and he’s locked in.
The setlist was pure muscle. “Dead and Gone” came early and hit like a bar fight. “Bustle and Flow” slithered and stomped. Then came the kind of move that separates men from boys: a drum solo. Tommy Clufetos made the kit look small. He pounded it into submission, then blew it apart in a solo that felt like he’d dragged Tommy Lee into the parking lot and buried him there.
The covers came fast and filthy. “Take a Long Line” snarled with Aussie bite. The medley of “Highway to Hell,” “Seven Nation Army,” “Heaven and Hell,” “Whole Lotta Love,” and “Living After Midnight” was chaotic, sloppy in all the right ways, and somehow perfect. “Black Betty” shook the floor, “Going Down” howled, “Fortunate Son” reminded everyone that some songs never lose their teeth. Even David Lowy stepped up for “Get a Haircut,” proving this really is a band, not a showcase.
They finished the main set with “Midnight Moses,” dragging the room into full-throttle chaos before coming back for “Resurrected” and a brutal “Helter Skelter,” with a sneaky shot of Zeppelin’s “Nobody’s Fault But Mine.” By then, the place was wrecked, the crowd wrung out, and the Daisies stood there grinning like they’d just pulled off a robbery.
Here’s the deal. The Dead Daisies aren’t here to save rock and roll. They’re here to play it, loud and unashamed, the way it’s supposed to be played. No gimmicks. No nostalgia cruise. Just fire, sweat, and songs that still sound alive.
