We've all done it; showing off around girls. It's what boys - of all ages - do. We can't help it. What would you do if you were the singer in the band, or the guitarist, and Taylor Swift came up to you to share your microphone? Think about that next time you're playing air guitar by yourself.
My footwear of choice these days is invariably a Chelsea boot; I have several pairs - in leather and suede - and in a range of colours; I quite like my blue ones. I also like to wear a skate shoe. I know - I don't skate. Have never skated. Christ, I can't skate. But Etnies, in true Mr. Kipling style, make exceedingly good skate shoes; I can still remember my first pair.
Phil Collen, on the other hand, is a sneaker freak (his words, not mine) and has recently brought out a Limited Edition range of self painted sneakers in Jackson Pollack splatter style. Collen has form - he also pimped a few Jackson guitars a while back in a similar fashion. This stylish short film ties the two together nicely.
Steve Jones, one time Sex Pistol and perennial tearaway has, as they say, burned the candle at both ends for much of his adult life. These days he can be found at KLOS 95.5 on the FM dial in Los Angeles, where he presents Jonesy's Jukebox. It's a simple format: every weekday lunchtime, for two hours, he plays the records he wants to play, and invites guests on to the show he wants to talk to. Past alumni have included Jack Black, Johnny Depp, Pete Townshend, Iggy Pop, Ozzy Osbourne, John Lydon, Brian May, Courtenay Love and many many more.
The tunes are imperious, the conversation is relaxed and you can see that his rough edges have ever so slightly been smoothed out: he's mellowed. That's what moving from Shepherd's Bush to LA does to you; though he still doesn't suffer fools.
Jones has grown into, whether he likes it or not, an elder statesman of the punk generation. He's come a long way from the awkward spotty oik who swore openly at Bill Grundy on live tea time TV in Britain in the late seventies.
Here he is playing some beautiful Spanish guitar, jamming with Phil Collen from Def Leppard (please don't let that put you off) and making a lovely sound - fast forward to 9:40 if you don't want the preamble.
Cod Reggae: the clue's in the name. If there was an FM station that, heaven forfend, only played this watered down white man's reggae it would probably have the first two Police albums on a permanent loop with 10cc's Dreadlock Holiday thrown in for good measure. And maybe Nice 'n' Sleazy by The Stranglers if they were really pushing the boat out and ting.
Don't get me wrong, if it's done right it can be served up as a delicacy; but for every White Man In Hammersmith Palais there's a Reggae Like It Used To Be (Paul Nicholas really was old enough to know better). Likewise, for every Big Six (Judge Dread was actually on the Trojan label) you've got The Tide Is High - Blondie stylee. Or even worse, Seaside Woman by Linda McCartney; that's right, her take on reggae was about as authentic as her sausages. And before the hate mail comes in, I will gladly put forward Macca's C Moon and praise it to the hilt. Skanking.
Mettlers usually stay well clear of this sort of thing. But Girl were different. That's why I always had a soft spot for them - especially this pleasant little ditty lifted from their 1980 debut album, Sheer Greed: my Cod Reggae guilty pleasure.
It seems to be open season on Leppards - especially the Def variety: it would appear that professional Northerner and vocalist Joe Elliott has been bemoaning the fact that rock bands get a bad press these days (no shit Joe?). And his guitarist cohort, Phil Collen, has just married the (third) girl of his dreams, in what appears to be either a very badly scripted episode of Dynasty or an out-take from Spinal Tap.
But it wasn't always thus. When Elliott and his gang formed Def Leppard at the arse end of the '70s, they had no bigger goal in their sights than playing Thin Lizzy covers and, maybe one day, getting a crack at their beloved Sheffield City Hall opening for Rory Gallagher. But, in less time than it takes to say spandex pants, they went from a self pressed EP (Getcha Rocks Off) and working men's clubs to the States and a multi-million selling album (Pyromania) that became the template for all metal albums in the '80s (and beyond).
I remember Joe living in Isleworth, west London, during the transition stage. He was sharing a house with some friends of mine, The Next Band (their drummer Frank Noon played on that EP). It was as if he was waiting for MTV to happen. And when it did, they showed the rest of the world how to use it. Uncle Sam adopted them and, not since the giddy days of The Beatles had the Americans taken to a bunch of working class English kids playing their rock'n'roll.
But it wasn't to last; the stories have become part of heavy metal folklore - car chases, severed limbs, fatal overdoses. Nobody from the School of Hard Knocks comes banging on their door for overdue subs.
However, some 30 years later, they're still doing what they do best: filling stadiums the world over and, yes, rambling on about how much better rock was in their day.
But cut the lads some slack. They don't mean any harm. They're metallers (albeit with a soft centre these days). If you want an edgy rock and roll quote, then go and stick a microphone under Damon Albarn's nose. Or Morrissey's. But if it's plain talking you want, then Joe's still your man.
Instead of trawling through the Leppard catalogue, I've found this: a bunch of bluegrass fingerpickers giving Rocket a full makeover.
