Gig review: Alice Cooper and The Cult at First Direct Arena, Leeds

As package deals go, there’s a no-brainer in the marriage of shock rock icon Alice Cooper and goth-tinged stalwarts The Cult. Both furrowed earlier sounds to critical success a decade apart, with hard rock and post-punk respectively; both found an arguable commercial zenith with the glam metal movement of the late eighties and early nineties.

Now, they arrive on purported equal footing, co-headliners on a bill that caps off its run at Leeds’s First Direct Arena, not too far from the latter’s nominal Bradford birthplace. There’s an argument this partnership could be construed as both godfatherly generosity and tacit admission; Cooper is no stranger to topping massive halls on his own, but at 74, he might be wondering how much longer his spectacle has on the road before the time comes to hang up his iconic cane.

For now, his bombastically daft pantomime edges his tourmates for sheer entertainment value, if not sonic crunch. Though vocalist Ian Astbury and guitarist Billy Duffy remain the only original members, The Cult’s current lineup are defined by their live commitments, and duly offer a smoke-rasped run through their golden period, highlighted by a swaggering Sweet Soul Sister and strident Fire Woman. They top off with the quasi-mystic jangle racket of She Sells Sanctuary, its delicacies slightly blunted on stage, but nevertheless still keening with pulsing power.

But Cooper has not survived rock-and-roll sea changes over half-a-century of shifting musical landscapes by resting on his laurels. If his stage show is very much more of the same as it has been for the past few decades now – a faux-grotesque cabaret revue, complete with mock castle setting, engorged infant dummies and a fake-out guillotine at the top of the night – then it is possessed of a Vegas-gilt fluency tinged with appreciative authenticity beneath its theatrics.

Split roughly down the middle between the seventies heyday of Cooper’s band days and latter-period solo material, the obvious big hitters are dispatched with fake-blood-drenched bravado; Bed of Nails is a delightful barnstormer, I’m Eighteen gets a menacing makeover, Poison threatens to singe the eyebrows. Meanwhile, the man in the middle remains in disarmingly good voice, oozing wolfish delight and a magician’s panache at each high-camp trick pulled out of his sleeve. “School’s out, Leeds!” he crows at the close as the titular track in question delivers a raucous, extended rock-out encore. As half-term treats go, he’s on the money.