I don’t really do tribute bands anymore. Not as a rule. I’ve seen a fair few over the years, and in all honesty, most of them end up looking like budget supermarket Halloween costumes set to a soundtrack of “close enough” versions of someone else’s music. Half the time it’s less “tribute” and more “covers band that raided a charity shop and decided to call it a concept.”

In fact, if some of these bands just ditched the dodgy wigs, stopped pretending they’re the reincarnation of musicians who are still very much alive, and simply admitted, “Yeah, we’re a covers band”, I’d probably respect them more. I might even go watch them for the music alone. No need for the circus sideshow or Poundland costumes, and don’t even get me started on the awkward attempts at stage banter in someone else’s accent.

Last August however, I made the decision to go and see Mötley Crüde, proudly marketed as “The World’s #1 Mötley Crüe Tribute Band”, which is typically the sort of claim someone makes when absolutely nobody has asked them to prove it. They were playing at the Robin 2 in Bilston, and I had two very solid reasons for going.

Firstly, because I’d heard nothing but how genuinely good this band were, suspiciously good in fact. And secondly, the venue has a bar. A bar that serves alcohol. And quite frankly, once you throw alcohol into the equation, my standards for entertainment drop faster than a drummer falling off a revolving stage. What was there to lose?… even if the band were awful, at least I could get hammered and not remember a thing about it the following morning… turns out that Mötley Crüde have every right to state their claims… They looked the part… They sounded the part… They played the part… They were absolutely awesome.

I’ve never exactly been what you’d call a card‑carrying Mötley Crüe superfan or anything. I’ve never owned a pair of latex trousers (not yet anyway). I don’t do guy-liner, and I’ve somehow never managed to catch the real band live. So I figured comparing them to a tribute act would be like comparing a microwave lasagne to that of a renowned Italian Michelin Star chef when you’ve never tasted his food.

But honestly? Mötley Crüde have the whole thing nailed. At times it was genuinely difficult to tell whether I was watching a tribute band or whether the actual Crüe had wandered in by mistake after taking a wrong turn at the motorway services.

Of course, somewhere out there, a music expert is already polishing his monocle and preparing a 47‑page thesis on why the two bands sound “absolutely nothing alike whatsoever,” but for the rest of us mere mortals… yeah, they’re impressively spot‑on, so as soon as they announced they were playing another local venue the following March, it was a no brainer. Tickets were purchased at the earliest opportunity.

This time around, we decided to rendezvous with friends in the Cannock Wetherspoon’s a few hours before the gig, mainly for a few beers, but also to confirm that everyone still looked vaguely human since the last time we’d seen them. Si and Kay were already there when Sonia and I arrived, looking suspiciously settled in, as if they’d been there since breakfast. Steve and Kelly wandered in shortly after, completing the full set as if we were assembling the world’s least intimidating Avengers team.

Now, as far as Wetherspoon’s pubs go, I’ve got to be honest: this one isn’t exactly my cup of tea. The staff are fine, the Guinness is absolutely spot‑on, but the place itself is so cramped it feels like it was designed by someone who has never met an overweight human being before. After about half an hour of elbow‑to‑rib combat with strangers, I was more than happy when Si suggested we migrate to the sports bar next door.

Thankfully, the Guinness there was just as good, because if it hadn’t been, I’d have had to dramatically stormed back into Wetherspoon’s with my tail between my legs, like a man returning to a toxic ex, pint glass in hand, muttering the words “you win this time God damn it”.

There was no support act for this show, which meant the band were hitting the stage at the wildly responsible hour of 8:15pm. That’s practically afternoon tea time in rock‑and‑roll terms, so before we knew it, it was time to shuffle our merry little convoy around the corner to the venue.

As far as music venues go, The Station, aptly named because it clings to the town’s bus station like an overly affectionate Labrador with separation issues, is really not that bad. I’ve been to far worse places. Yes, it’s up a flight of stairs, which isn’t ideal for those of us who creak, groan, and swear every time we bend a joint, but thankfully there’s a lift to haul our decrepit, arthritic carcasses up to the bar… Priorities.

Inside, it’s dark and wooden with just the right amount of stickiness to remind you that you’re in a proper gig venue. There are a few beer-barrel tables and a scattering of stools spread around, and a small but impressively efficient bar. At the back there’s a little raised area with a couple of leather sofas… uncomfortable enough to keep you alert, but welcoming enough to rest your weary bones. That’s exactly where Sonia and Kay made a beeline for while the rest of us sensibly headed for the bar… Then disaster struck!… What do you mean you only sell Guinness 0.0% Alcohol Free?… And what the hell is Nightjar?…

The first sip of this unfamiliar stout was excruciatingly painful and almost impossible to swallow. Literally. It hit the back of my throat like a damp loaf of bread soaked in nothing but regret. But, as with most questionable life choices served in a plastic cup, the deeper you get into it, the less your taste buds complain. By halfway down, I’d stopped wincing. By three‑quarters, I was practically nodding in approval. And before I knew it, the beers were flowing just fine again.

With drinks in hand, the rest of us made our way over to the raised platform where Sonia and Kay had already secured the high ground like two seasoned generals defending their castle gates. Anyone foolish enough to approach was met with the kind of polite-but-deadly glare that says, “Try it. Just try it. We dare you”… Nobody tried it.

It was around this point that whispers began circulating, whispers of a rumour so outrageous it could only have been born from the depths of gig mythology. Apparently, the entire platform had been reserved. Reserved! By whom exactly?… By Doddy apparently, whoever Doddy is…

The only evidence of this alleged reservation however was a makeshift scribbled, handwritten paper sign that suggested the author had either been drunk or blindfolded at the time of writing. This sign, we were ‘told’, had tragically broken free from its sticky‑tape shackles and drifted off into the night, never to be seen again, well… not until someone eventually pulls out one of the sofas and discovers it lurking behind there anyway. Reserved sign?… What reserved sign?… We didn’t see any reserved sign…

At last, it was time for Mötley Crüde to hit the stage, and hit it they did. In fact, they hit it so hard, I wasn’t sure if the haze filling the room was dry ice or the building’s foundations crumbling in protest. As they tore into Crüe’s debut single Live Wire, the crowd collectively forgot about fire codes, oxygen levels, and the concept of personal space.

It was at this moment that I realised just why we’d bought tickets to see one of those tribute bands I usually avoid like three week old sushi. These guys aren’t just good, they’re so good I half expected Vince Neil and Tommy Lee to burst in demanding royalties. Honestly, if you closed your eyes, you could swear you were at a real Crüe show… Or so I’m led to believe.

‘Shout at the Devil’, ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’, ‘Dr Feelgood’, and ‘Without You’ all blended together so smoothly you’d think the set list had been mixed in a NutriBullet. Toss in ‘Looks That Kill’, ‘Too Young to Fall In Love’, and ‘Smokin’ In The Boys Room’, and suddenly the night felt less like a gig and more like a jukebox that had been possessed by the ghost of an ’80s hair salon. Though it’s kind of weird being taken back to 1981 by a singer who wasn’t born until 1993…

Stevie Pealing’s American accent isn’t half bad for a bloke from Plymouth either, though once Sonia had pointed out that Tom Henstock (drummer and uncanny Tommy Lee lookalike) sounded exactly like Yogi Bear whenever he spoke in an American accent, there was no going back. From then on, every “Yeah, man!” was heard as “Hey boo-boo, pass me the drumsticks!” I’m sure she meant it kindly, but it’s hard to take a rock god seriously when you’re picturing him sneaking picnic baskets in in between songs.

The band don’t just know how to entertain, they practically hold a PhD in it. Crowd participation? They’ve got it down to a fine art, somewhere between a rock concert and a group therapy session where everyone leaves sweaty but smiling. No wonder this was their fifth sold-out gig since returning from Australia. And now, they’re headlining Crüe Fest this July at West Hollywood’s legendary Whiskey a Go Go in the very heart of Sunset Strip, where the walls have seen more rock history than a Rolling Stones tour bus. Honestly, they’ve earned it, and they deserve it.

As per tradition, my bladder staged a mutiny right before the encore, so I missed the last couple of songs. On my way back, I was intercepted by a student who clocked my Crowbar hoody and immediately launched into a monologue about how they’d be his soundtrack of choice when, not if, World War 3 ever breaks out. Apparently, nothing says “national defence” like the sound of sludge metal riffs.

Bless him, though. He looked like the kind of guy who’d struggle to assemble an IKEA chair, let alone operate heavy artillery. Headphones? Sure, mate. Because nothing strikes fear into the enemy like a lad in skinny jeans blasting “Broken Glass” while fumbling with the safety catch on his Nerf gun.

Once the gig wrapped up, Sonia and I loitered outside like a pair of dodgy ticket touts, waiting for Steve and Kelly to appear so we could pile into our taxi bound for the Giffard in Wolverhampton, our spiritual home, a temple of questionable décor, and a shrine to exceptionally good music. Meanwhile, Si and Kay had already scarpered off to catch their bus back to Walsall. A bus. At 10:15pm. Honestly, who leaves a night out at the same time pensioners are putting the kettle on for their bedtime cocoa?

I’d tried to talk Si out of it earlier, but he was adamant. Apparently, the lure of public transport was stronger than the siren call of Jack Daniels. Madness. There was still JD to be purchased, consumed, and inevitably regretted. And plenty of it. Leaving at 10:15pm felt like quitting a marathon after two miles because you’ve spotted a Greggs… In reality though, it was Mother’s Day in just a few hours, and they did have places to be and mothers to see the following day.

It was pretty quiet at the Giff when we first rolled in, which only meant one glorious thing… lightning-fast service at the bar. And let’s be honest, the faster you get served, the faster you drink, and the faster you drink, the faster you start believing you’re the world’s greatest singer. In my case though, by 1:00am, after nine solid hours of liquid “training”, my body was starting to stage its own quiet rebellion. Still, I soldiered on like a tipsy gladiator armed with nothing but warm bourbon and misplaced confidence, at least for another hour or so anyway.

By then, Steve and Kelly had already bailed, leaving us to fend off the wobbly biker who kept asking me to guard his pint like some kind of medieval ale knight while he staggered outside for gasps of Wolverhampton’s attempt at fresh air. And then there was the random geriatric Chelsea supporter who seemed to think we were his long-lost therapists. Honestly, why us? Why do we always attract the human equivalent of a carnival sideshow? At this point, I’m convinced we must give off some kind of beacon: “Come forth, ye eccentric souls, come share thy pint-related woes with us!”… No, it was most definitely time to make our way home, and before I knew it, the taxi was ordered, the front door was locked, and I was making my way up the stairs to bed.

All in all, it was another glorious night out, powered by questionable friendship decisions, heroic levels of alcohol consumption, and enough 80’s Hair Rock to make Elnett’s hairspray stock prices spike. Honestly, the only thing louder than the band was the collective hangover waiting for us the following morning. We’re already counting down the days until Mötley Crüde storm back into The Robin 2 in Bilston again later this year so we can do it all over again.

Motley Crude Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/motleycrudegb

The Station, Cannock: https://ticket247.co.uk/Page/The-Station-Cannock