Rarely does a redheaded man receive so much lady-attention as the ultra-masculine Josh Homme. Certainly most of the women in the audience for the Eagles of Death Metal were holding fast to the hope that the ginger giant himself would take the stage. Frontman Jesse – œThe Devil’ Hughes had remained mum on the subject in promotional interviews, doing nothing to silence the speculation.

Before the night’s most important question could be answered, the crowd endured a tedious set from former Spiderbait drummer Kram. Since the evening was an all-ages event, the legal adults were forced to choose between drinking or relative quiet. Those who chose to stay probably needed the effect of the alcohol in order to enjoy Kram’s set.

Featuring an unusual bass-free set-up, the backing band suffered in the typically poor acoustics of the concrete-and-steel Big Top. The twin guitars were an undifferentiated mess plagued by unintentional feedback. Kram, too, lacked the charisma to make the uninspiring generic rock compelling, feeling too often like a busker who was surprised to find himself facing a large crowd.

As the Eagles of Death Metal prove, there’s nothing wrong with ripping off classic rock if you’ve got the chops and the energy to make it convincing. In fact, accusing EODM of being derivative is on par with telling a stranger’s child that Santa Claus doesn’t exist: it might be true, but you know in your heart that spoiling the magic doesn’t help anyone.

Even walking onto the stage, Jesse – œThe Devil/Boots Electric’ Hughes moves like the great rock stars. Bound in skin-tight jeans, he moved with slinky, sexual energy from the shoulders of his tight black t-shirt down to the heels of his cowboy boots.

In spite of Hughes’ presence, it didn’t take the women in the room long to figure out that Homme was not in attendance. Any displeasure was offset, though, when the Hulk-ish form of Queens of the Stone Age drummer Joey Castillo. Though the nature of his appeal to the ladies varies slightly from that of Homme, it’s safe to say that the band wasn’t lacking for eye candy, given the wide-eyed appraisals of Castillo’s tree-trunk arms.

Hughes didn’t leave much room for the other band members to steal the limelight, though. Spilling over with energy, Hughes was the evening’s unabashed show-stealer. No rock star move was too cheesy, as Hughes took every opportunity to swagger around the stage, every movement (and every song) clearly beginning in the pelvis. From behind his aviator sunnies and impressive handlebar moustache, Hughes grinned like a little kid who was living out his dreams, and it was this enthusiasm that makes his performance so engaging. In a post-ironic scene were most bands are left standing static, the delivery of unmitigated energy, drawn in a straight line from Little Richard down through Elvis and the Stones, was a refreshing change of pace.

The set-list, rather like any EODM album, tended to emphasise the band’s limited sonic palette, as the songs blurred into a series of vintage riffs – but no one comes to an Eagles of Death Metal gig to hear a slow number. Hughes make no secret of his musical roots: given that about 90% of EODM numbers start with riffs that sound uncannily like Keith Richards, it was a thrill to hear the band punch out a tight cover of Brown Sugar. Coming off the back of a, shall we say – œbrave’, solo performance of Cherry Cola and the Ramones’ Beat On the Brat, the crowd went into paroxysms of joy at those legendary opening chords.

As Hughes declared (immediately after being flashed by a girl in the crowd), “this is the greatest job in the world”. That sums up the Eagles of Death Metal spirit neatly: even though they’re little more than a loose collection of rock clichés, Hughes’ unfailing commitment and unflinching belief make such concerns irrelevant. Until the Rolling Stones rediscover their verve, we are delighted to have the Eagles of Death Metal filling their shoes.