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Kerrang! 12-Feb-05 : Brixton Review - Issue #1043

Rammstein
Brixton Academy, London
03.02.05
KKKKK

The greatest show on earth ignites in London.

Fire! Fucking fire! And an evil chef armed with a massive knife cooking a man in a giant pot before chasing him around the stag! And more explosions than an Arnie move! Two hours and two encores! Twenty-five pounds is how much it costs to see Rammstein at Brixton. Twenty-five pounds. A price the more penny-pinching fan would regard as steep – but when it comes to Rammstein, the more you give, the more you get.
The stage set is fucking awesome. A huge, imposing industrial iron structure atop which perches Christoph Schneider’s kit, with a portal in the middle. It’s from here that Till Lindemann marches robotically to the front of the stage clad in military tunic and lederhosen, as guitarists Paul Landers and Richard Kruspe-Bernstein are lowered down on two platforms at either side, and keyboard nutter Flake skulks on, Gollum-like. Then, in a flash of 10-foot high flames that you can feel even at the back of the hall – BOOM! – it begins.
What Rammstein have that so many other bands lack – besides a small war’s worth of explosive devices – is character. Lindemann, now shirtless and looking like a flexing statue, has the crow in the palm of his hand thanks to his efficient bluntness. Gruff and commanding, he’s able to raise a huge roar from the crowd with the tiniest hand gesture. But there’s something else at work here. It’s the way that the music and the spectacle fit so perfectly together that makes Rammstein so fucking amazing to watch. Of course, ‘Feuer Frei’ has loads of explosions: the chorus goes ‘Bang! Bang!’ – it’d be rude not to.
Then there’s the three-way fire breathing, which is possibly one of the most astonishing spectacles you will ever witness. Lindemann and his two guitar colleagues leave the stage and return sporting long, flaming face masks that make them look half dragon, half aardvark. Stood facing each other in a triangle, the trio then send out three fucking huge jets of flame from their faces. The result, as if it needs to be said, is utterly spectacular.
It’s official: Rammstein are the best live act on the planet. No contest.
Nick Ruskell.

© 2005 Sue Lindemann