If throwing a tantrum was a national sport, Yngwie Malmsteen would do it for Sweden. It might be getting ahead of the story of his gig at the Palace but it’s worth mentioning straight off the bat. Sure, he is the star. He knows it. His name appears in super-sized letters on every album his band Rising Force has released, dwarfing the band’s own title. His name appears before his lead singer’s name who, bless, makes every effort to be the frontman. What a job. It’s just so futile when you have the solo genius standing right next to you, wearing more gold than a year’s wages in Rising Force and swooning at the crowd in mock ecstasy. While Yngwie was busy changing guitars, the singer made attempts at small-talk with the crowd, for example, “so, Pop-Idol just started another season and we wanted to thank you for supporting live music!” to a rumble of cheers. Of course, with banter like that he was blasted away by Yngwie’s vintage Strat and his five full sized Marshalls. All of this to keep the crowd going; no personality required. And what a crowd! Yes, I missed the boat when it came to poodle hairdos and shredding but my Mum wouldn’t let me go to Calder Park for the Gunners or Skid Row. I’m making up for it though and it’s a sight to behold to see how many haven’t forgotten what it was like to tease your blonde locks out to a fine mop. It was an aging crowd but the lengths they will go to catch a guitar god who thinks he is any one of Mozart, Hendrix, Bach or a Viking prince at any one time is appreciable. Even one punter came from Darwin for the show.

Yngwie didn’t disappoint. The Palace was roughly three quarters full but there was a noticeable group of stragglers and fed up people who, by the 35 minute mark, had to retire to the front bar for a quieter experience. But this is all too far into the future so lets get back to the beginning.

The Five Venoms opened for Yngwie. For them, it might have been their greatest achievement so far in a long list of great achievements. Their Yngwie idolatry is second to none in Melbourne and although I didn’t manage to catch them thanks to there being no supports publicised, I can vouch for their lack of irony. I imagined them gazing from the sidelines behind the smoke and lights at their guitar patron with a big self satisfied smile though.

And so, as we arrived there was enough time to see the merch stand selling $60 autographed Yngwie tees as well as the inferior unsigned variety for $40 before the Marshalls fired up and Yngwie let the howl of the riff-wolf loose, the black curtain ascended to reveal the stage completely enveloped in an impenetrable floor-to-ceiling smokey fog. The red, yellow and purple lights ignited and the spotlights moved around trying to find their target. Yngwie was nowhere in sight but the band played a roaring opener. Finally, Yngwie mounted the monitors with just his head and chest out of the fog, resplendent in gold chains and rings, padded shoulders and open shirt. He made faces from the stage in tune with his fretboard manipulation like it’s an experience more private than public. This went on throughout the set while he fretted about light in his eyes. Yngwie couldn’t stand it. He made pained gestures towards the spotlight and shielded his eyes with his hands. The solos miraculously continued even while his strumming mitt was absent from the Strat. The lights obviously offended the maestro and without pausing to think he spitted into the mic “get that fucking spotlight down, don’t fuck with me!” while making cut-throat gestures at anyone threatening him with illumination. The spots went out.

This wasn’t the end of his tantrums though as a few other lights were left on and the cut-throat moves continued until finally, Yngwie stopped playing. The lights shut down in a panic. This had been an interesting gig so far with some impressive displays of arrogant stardom. Most appreciable out of all these displays was that Yngwie chose to modernise pieces of Bach and Mozart. A jarring reference to Jimi Hendrix also rang out, but really, it’s just not cricket. There was no element of the 60s civil rights movement in Yngwie’s Swedish frame. He aped Hendrix’s rendition of Star Spangled Banner with an ease that showed less thought going into it than the tasseled paisley icon of guitar distortion. In fact, I found it offensive. The set moved on, including the furious Latin spiced acoustic solo on Black Star, plus hit after hit for all the guitar aficionados.

For the casual punter, like me, the experience held its appeal for the first 35 minutes. The tantrums, references to great icons of musical history and general tiresomeness of self-indulgence, all of which prompted part of the crowd to move out of the firing line and into the front bar including us. It was quite busy by the halfway mark of the gig and finally we were able to eavesdrop on other people’s experiences of the gig. No-one wanted to call it boring but they searched for words that were similar. They were, however, satisfied. Seeing Yngwie is an experience in stardom and he served up exactly what they were after.