A lesson I've learned again and again is that it's a fine line between good-natured ribaldry and jockish demands for tit-flashing. Like, say, at the weekly Steel Panther gigs at Hollywood's Key Club, where the moments leading to SPanther's entrance are spent with a live boob-cam manned by frowning stagehands, who bark orders at tank top chicks in a creepy manner totally not conducive to breast-revealing. Then Michael Starr, Satchel, the gay one, and the drummer come out and before you know it, two porn actresses are grinding on somebody's grandmother to "Pour Some Sugar On Me."
Anyway, the band's intro made a good point that still-active bands Bon Jovi, Def Leppard, and Motley Crue suck ass now and that Steel Panther is the superior show. No one should be surprised, as anything left out in the wind for 25 years will assuredly grow stale. I'm resigned to that. What is truly shocking though, is that Steven Tyler looks like the goddamn crypt-keeper (above, at a Boston liquor store?). Life is finite, youth is fleeting, Vince Neil is a fatass. Way to stick it in my face, Tyler. More drugs, please.