Salient. Victoria University Student Newspaper. Vol. 35. No. 13. 14 June 1972
Slade Alive
Slade Alive
A strange album, and difficult to judge. The music is good rhythmic noise, the production capable, and the performance explosive. Yet it's boring. You get the impression that both the group and the audience are trying too hard. However, seeing the group in perspective makes it all seem a little easier to understand.
Slade arose from the Black Country, the industrial heart of the Midlands. They cater to the new, younger rock audience who have not yet accepted snob rock values and who, as Nick Logan puts it, want to feel the emotion and sheer gut and crutch power of rock at least on a par with, if not ahead of the cerebral qualities that have been pushed down the throats of the older generation. The group have made association with their audience a feature of their performances (even to the extent of short haircuts). They exhort their people to let go at concerts, and if they don't, the group "just pummels their brains until they give in."
This exhortation on record, delivered in British working class vein gets pretty oppressive, however, since it sounds too much like a mission hall charity concert in Coronation Street. Or Cilia Black. You feel embarrassed and offended that a group should think you need such provocation to get moving.
Dave Hill is a bloody good guitarist. His performance of Alvin Lee's Hear Me Calling is impeccable, and his feedback control is comparable to that of Hendrix. Noddy Holder's vocals can generate a lot of excitement, so when I hear good tracks, Know Who You Are, I wonder why they doodle around with the rest. But why not? On this album you can hear the audience screaming their approval, stamping and clapping.
"It is the beat we play at, says Holder. "They sweat their bollocks off through a show and when they pour out of the club they are shagged out. It's a kind of release valve."
I think it's fair to say that the appeal of groups like Slade will persist as long as the young British workers need them.
—Philip Alley