A Starr is born: Steel Panther.

For what is only their second visit to Scotland, Steel Panther possess the impressive ability to drag a good half-venue of Glaswegians out on this icy December eve. There’s a fundamental irony in so many showing up to watch a brutal, wig-wearing lampoon of ‘80s era heavy metal, comically detailing the type of excesses that were, at one point, embodied in a serious manner by tonight’s co-headliners. Perhaps this lack of criticism for the Panther arises from the fact that the two ‘serious’ bands being parodied here once wrote hit songs about overdosing, dying, coming back to life, hitching a lift home and overdosing again (and that’s just one song) and masturbating over a picture of Marilyn Monroe. The laughter track has always been playing silently in the background of their careers, perhaps desensitizing fans to the point where not even a piss-taking pseudo-tribute act can expose the ridiculousness of such antics. Or maybe the satire just completely passes over the heads of the girls who sit on boyfriends’ shoulders, screaming and exposing themselves to the misogyny of 17 Girls In A Row and Community Property. Either way, they’re entirely entertaining, and provide some respite from a metal scene that often forgets how to have fun.

Mötley Crüe appear with a loud bang but, sadly, it’s not something that they go out on. Let’s not lie: it was the Crue who sold out this gig tonight, perhaps with some help from the support act. They could probably spend their set reading out Chekov plays and the crowd would lap it up but, while Wild Side and Girls, Girls, Girls keep fans in the band’s palms as firmly as ever, the sloppiness that has attributed itself to them in recent years still lingers. Vince still inexplicably misses out words and Mick Mars, while gifted and soulful within the refrains of songs, recreates the sound of a malfunctioning Dyson in the instrumental interludes. Flaws aside, the LA four still know how to put on a hell of a twisted carnival show, be it in terms of sound (a rowdy singalong to Smokin’ In The Boys’ Room and the grown-up sleaze rock of Saints Of Los Angeles) or vision (drummer Tommy Lee playing upside-down on a firework-filled rollercoaster) and there are enough thrills to make up for the occasional complacency.

Rolling into town: Tommy Lee, upside-down.

What Def Leppard lack in Motley Crue’s rawness and sleaze, they make up for in pristine, crafted, stadium-straddling brilliance. The runaway train of hits rolls down the line, calling at all stops from Animal to Photograph, and even an acoustic session of ballads doesn’t halt the momentum. There is, however, a sense that a percentage of tonight’s crowd see the Lep as an ironic nostalgia act, one that does not have the privilege of carrying itself on MTV culture and the popularity of reality television shows. The pomp and swagger of subtle-as-a-brick classic Pour Some Sugar On Me is perhaps laughable to the new generation of back-combing Nikki Sixx fans – it’s mainly the older attendees that are wearing Def Lep merchandise tonight – but the NWOBHMers play like proud veterans as opposed to apologetic anachronisms. Joe Elliott can’t always reach the high notes anymore – a flaw which may, in fairness, pertain to age rather than inability – but an a cappella ending to When Love And Hate Collide by the audience stands as the warmest moment of the evening.

Rock of (old) Ages: Def Leppard's Joe and Phil.

Without trying to review the headliners solely by contrast to their touring partners, it’s virtually indubitable that most negative preconceptions about them are based on a trendy social consensus as opposed to legitimate personal tastes, which sadly shatters the principle of what this music stands for. Three sides of the same strange three-sided coin the bands may be, but this tour stands as a visceral monument to the continuing idea of rock as a wonderfully varied, but uniting, force.