This week, the Queen of Horror, Brocarde, swaps gothic glamour for heavy metal mayhem as she ventures into the roaring heart of Los Angeles to witness Iron Maiden live. She arrives at BMO Stadium as a gothic fortress amongst an army of more than 20,000 metalheads.
A sea of vintage T-shirts
As daylight disappears over Los Angeles, Brocarde stands out like a dark thorn amongst a sea of metal-headed roses. There is absolutely no mistaking where she is. Even if she had desperately wanted to blend into the background – which, naturally, she didn't – the sea of Iron Maiden T-shirts would have made that impossible.
Here, the T-shirt is practically a uniform. Vintage is preferable, and the older the shirt, the greater the apparent bragging rights. These fans have been wearing their devotion for decades. This is an army that has survived the passing of musical trends alongside Iron Maiden themselves.
The whole of Los Angeles was Maiden ready, the Rainbow Bar had even transformed into Eddie's Dive Bar to mark the occasion. Brocarde attended the opening night of the band's Los Angeles run, the first of two sold-out performances. And if there is a better setting for an evening of live music than beneath the Californian night sky, she hasn't found it. Iron Maiden certainly seem to agree, arriving ready to turn the stadium into a giant heavy-metal playground.
Bruce Dickinson takes command
The moment Doctor Doctor blasts through the venue, the atmosphere changes. It feels as though somebody has injected the entire stadium with adrenaline. Twenty thousand voices erupt, the crowd hungry for the familiar anthems they have come to hear.
Then comes Bruce Dickinson. He appears through the fog with the theatrical grandeur of a supernatural being descending from the heavens. Behind him, huge visual projections transport the audience through a cinematic journey, including a trip to Paris. Yet nobody in the stadium seems remotely interested in being anywhere else. This is the destination.
Dickinson owns the stage with astonishing command. He swings his microphone stand around with the confidence of someone wielding a weapon, while his extraordinary vocals fill every corner of the stadium. His voice cuts through the atmosphere with remarkable power, bouncing back from the walls as the crowd sings along.
The Run For Your Lives Tour marks 50 years of Iron Maiden music, yet watching Dickinson perform, it is difficult to comprehend that he is 68. His energy is extraordinary, particularly considering that he is also a survivor of throat cancer.
Eddie and the full moon
One of the highlights of the evening for Brocarde is Phantom of the Opera. As someone with a love of symphonic metal, the theatricality of this song has long been an inspiration to her own work as a musical artist. It has everything: drama, darkness, opera and an unmistakable sense of spectacle. It is a lavish banquet of metal, and there isn't a court jester in sight.
Then, of course, there is Eddie. Iron Maiden's legendary seventh member stalks onto the stage, enormous and terrifying, looming over the audience like something that has escaped from a particularly sinister nightmare. Few mascots have achieved the level of devotion Eddie commands. The fans adore him almost as fiercely as they adore the band. After all these years, Iron Maiden really have created a monster.
As darkness settles over BMO Stadium, something else catches Brocarde's eye: the moon. It hangs above the venue, enormous and strangely captivating. Her thoughts immediately turn towards werewolves. Because what else is one supposed to think about while standing at an Iron Maiden concert beneath a giant moon?
Then, in a wonderfully bizarre moment of synchronicity, Bruce Dickinson pauses and acknowledges the enormous object glowing above them. It wasn't just a full moon, it was a waxing gibbous, but it was prominent enough to look thoroughly suspicious in the night sky.
We all know the mythology: full moon, werewolves, transformation. Dickinson knows it too. He calls upon any potential werewolves hiding amongst the audience to reveal themselves, and 20,000 metalheads respond with a deafening roar. Brocarde watches carefully. Nothing. Not a single transformation. Her eyes sweep across the restless crowd, searching for anything remotely suspicious – twitching, unexpected rippling beneath T-shirts, unnatural movement or perhaps the dramatic tearing of fabric as somebody discovers their inner beast.
But no Iron Maiden T-shirt is sacrificed to the supernatural. No fangs emerge. No thick fur suddenly appears. No claws spring from unsuspecting hands. The only creature howling at the moon is Bruce Dickinson.
For tonight, at least, Los Angeles remains werewolf-free. But there is still a concert to finish, and finish it they do. With a 17-track set spanning five decades of music and a two-hour theatrical assault on the senses, Iron Maiden leave BMO Stadium in ruins, metaphorically, of course.
The fans disappear into the Los Angeles night, fuelled by the kind of Maiden magic that clearly refuses to age. And somewhere above them, the suspiciously enormous moon continues to watch.
