Forget Angel of Death and Rock The Kasbah. If George W. Bush had siphoned non-stop boogie-rock into Iraq, not only would there have been no war, Saddam Hussein would be personally cleaning the toilets at Camp David with a toothbrush. For this is the most blatant, inescapable, and relentless form of torture.

The stage at The Palais was impressively decked to look like some kind of motorway, with black-and-yellow ‘do not cross’ tape, flashing roadwork lights, and a white Marshall stack that looked less like a stage and more like the rear-end of an Imperial starship. A Different Trains-esque sound-scape of – bizarrely – truck noises, Eminem, Troy Cassar-Daley, and diesel horns pummeled the audience in Dolby stereo, until small children in custom made ‘Status Quo’ bomber jackets were gripping their ears in a mixture of pain and terror. But this was nothing compared with the shock and awe campaign which was to continue for the next two hours. Looking like the fish that Spinal Tap reject, the Quo jog onstage like Life Be In It poster-boys, all of them wearing black jeans with blinding white runners – a faux pas of the highest order that should have been an indicator of the high crimes to come. They launched into Caroline, which was sprightly enough, and then it all… went… down… hill. With all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, or indeed, a Pile driver. They then treated the fans to a four song bracket from their new material [including the turgid Solid Gold] and then, even more horribly, a four song medley from what could only be described as the ‘Eastern period’ – yes, synth lutes and everything. This is particularly horrific. Even the most dedicated fans are starting to sit down. Francis Rossi has an inane stage presence, replete with “ooh-err, Matron!” stage banter, and when he rips into a gratuitous opening solo [there are many of them], Rick Parfitt and bassist John ‘Rhino’ Edwards lean forward and swing their guitars between their legs like demented perverts in some kind of phallic hilarity. There is much that is offensive about the stupidity of this show, but two things glare with particular ugliness: Rossi and Parfitt are obviously very talented guitarists, so it is hard to imagine how and/or why they can continue to play such idiotic drivel – in fact, you can see the desperation creep into their eyes from time to time. Also, the mixing was offensively bland: the drums were clean and pushed way too loud, the guitars were blisteringly loud and dirty, and the vocals were clean and strident. Boooring.