The Classic Rock Show – LIVE
The Classic Rock Show – LIVE
The Queens Hall – Edinburgh
20/02/2026
Review by Jon Deaux
Queens Hall was a church, and you can sense that. The walls retain that chill, that holy quiet, that sense of bodies crammed in, all of them staring up at something massive and bizarre looming above them. Tonight, The Classic Rock Show transformed that space into a different kind of holy place. To be honest, it’s the only religion I’ve witnessed that’s left a crowd this drenched.
The moment they started playing, it was as if the afterlife itself had a response. The dead came out to party with us. Freddie Mercury led the procession, no question. His ghost appeared with that crazy swagger, hips swiveling, all satin and sweat and who-cares mojo. He hovered at the edge of the stage, out of reach, like a shimmer of heat on asphalt. Freddie’s ghost is pure showbiz—sex, power, greater than death, greater than shame, greater than the chill Edinburgh night pressing against the stained glass. It’s in your throat, and, to be honest, elsewhere too. The man died and became something even more implausible. That’s the most Freddie thing he ever did.
Bon Scott drifted in through the back door, because, come on, Bon Scott never came in through the front door. He brought the scent of whisky and mayhem, that denim jacket swagger that lit people on fire in the seventies and never really went away. He planted himself behind you, bold as brass, impossible to ignore, like a reassuring hand at the base of your spine. Passed out in a car, he choked on vomit (it’s difficult to say whose as you can’t dust vomit for fingerprints).
Keith Moon came barrelling in like a grenade. Quiet was never his style. Every note from him was like a beautiful little disaster. He trashed hotel rooms for kicks, installed swimming pools in Rolls-Royces, then drove the whole shebang into an actual pool just for kicks. Finally, he died from the pills they used to keep him from drinking booze.
Syd Barrett lingered on the periphery, a ghost with a dream. Sweet and torn apart, innocence and heartache all mixed up. There’s always a sting with Syd—try to reach out, and he’ll slip right through your fingers. He left the band, the music, the world. Spent thirty years disappearing in Cambridge, got quieter, heavier, and died the same week Pink Floyd was talking about him on the radio. Syd Barrett didn’t stick around for anyone’s memorial.
Randy Rhoads’ spirit fused into the solos, lingering there, weaving through every note like a flame or a restless heart, something that yearns to be grasped, not just listened to. He died in a plane crash, a victim of fate when a joyride turned tragic. His ghost plays with a fire, with something to prove, and who could blame him? Because that sound—those soaring, intricate riffs—leave you gutted in the most glorious way. It makes your heart race, like it’s trying to keep up with something impossibly alive.
And beneath it all—the ghosts, the riffs, the lights illuminating that old ceiling to make it something like heaven and something like a really tempting hell—there’s the music. It’s got a physicality, a shamelessness. A hundred million views on YouTube? That’s just a number. What happens in Queens Hall is something else. It’s a consummation. These songs have outlived their authors by decades. That’s something about the power of art, or maybe just about how unfair grief can be. Grief never ties up the loose ends.
James Cole runs this séance like he knows what he’s doing: rock and roll is living bodies answering the dead, the electricity of a chord that outlasts the person who played it. Being in a room where something huge and long gone shows up again, even if only for a minute. He plays like it’s important, because it is. He plays for the dead like they’re in the room. And tonight, they were.
The Freebird guitar duel was dirty, in the best possible way. Two guys playing solos in the dark, the audience lapping it up, wrecked and grateful, all in on this strange and beautiful thing. It was like grief and foreplay all wrapped up together, which, to be honest, is what rock and roll has always promised. By the final note, the whole room was like a confessional. Everyone a little flushed, a little breathless, a little guilty—and not because of any tax returns they’d forgotten about this week.
The dead were close to Edinburgh tonight. To be honest, they were the best company you could hope for. Better than most of the living, anyway. And, no question, better dressed.
Set 1:
Pinball Wizard (The Who cover)
Life in the Fast Lane (Eagles cover)
Rhiannon (Fleetwood Mac cover)
Burn (Deep Purple cover)
Money for Nothing (Dire Straits cover)
Tom Sawyer (Rush cover)
Heroes (David Bowie cover)
Time (Pink Floyd cover)
Hit Me With Your Best Shot (Eddie Schwartz cover)
Here I Go Again (Whitesnake cover)
Set 2:
Crazy Train (Ozzy Osbourne cover)
Changes (Black Sabbath cover)
Mama, I’m Coming Home (Ozzy Osbourne cover)
Edge of Seventeen (Stevie Nicks cover)
Wild Horses (The Rolling Stones cover)
Bat Out of Hell (Meat Loaf cover)
Whatever You Want (Status Quo cover)
Thunderstruck( AC/DC cover)
Jump (Van Halen cover)
Free Bird (Lynyrd Skynyrd cover)
Encore:
Bohemian Rhapsody (Queen cover)
Rock and Roll (Led Zeppelin cover)
LINKS:
The Classic Rock Show:
Venue:
Disclaimer: This review is solely the property of Jon Deaux and Ever Metal. It is strictly forbidden to copy any part of this review, unless you have the strict permission of both parties. Failure to adhere to this will be treated as plagiarism and will be reported to the relevant authorities.
