Rival Sons may not have been around as long as ZZ Top, but these Californians know how to take any audience and turn them into evangelists for the cause of rock ‘n’ roll.
Rival Sons
OVO Arena Wembley – 11 July 2024
Words: Paul Monkhouse
Photography: Robert Sutton
Not just a formidable band, but incidentally some of the sharpest dressers on the planet, the Rival Sons story is one that shows they are already in the super leagues.
It is just going to take one thing to change, which will see them headlining stadiums. Quite what that thing is seems to be quite elusive, but there are few acts on the planet right now with their firepower and style.
The quintet have managed to harness some of the best the ’70s had to offer and mould it into something distinctly their own.
Wearing a light salmon pink suit, a barefoot Jay Buchanan somehow channels the spirits of Jim Morrison and Muddy Waters, his bluesy howl shoots through with a carefree vibe, the bombastic Mirrors rattling and roaring in all the right places.
Starting with Scott Holiday’s wild slide playing, Open My Eyes brings a freight train groove as Michael Miley’s drumming and the bass of Dave Beste give a real swing to the number, the hard rock of Pressure and Time sounding like a long-lost Led Zep classic as the band reach even higher.
Holiday seems to change guitars for every number, each bringing its own distinctive tone as the riffs peel out through the arena. The deep, punchy soul of Too Bad gives him a chance to show a subtle side to his playing as he prowls the stage.
Buchanan speaks with obvious affection about the headliners ZZ Top, the sense of the fanboy leaking through aces any egos and the moment is a significant one.
Here, the music connects both the performer and the audience on a cellular level. The same was true when the band eschewed the main stages at Hellfest a few days before to play a smaller outdoor stage, seeing the whites of the crowd’s eyes.
An earthshaking Feral Roots brings a Southern Gothic atmosphere heavy with sparks, the interplay between the guitar and keys adding layer upon layer before an extended section brings the whirlwind of sound to a fever pitch.
The ragged and dirty Do Your Worst kicks like a mule before the closing fuzz, and a sexed-up riot of Electric Man brings the whole to a satisfying climax that leaves no one in any doubt that nothing can stop them.
As the last note fades, Buchanan simply states, “We love you, London. Rival Sons…we play rock ‘n’ roll”. Never a truer word was spoken.
