A giant rock group tour is being planned, with top names from the United States, and security is the big problem with the promoters. How can they avoid the appalling violence from rioting fans, without jeopardising the lives of the security guards themselves? The Hell's Angels seem the answer, and Gerry Vinson's Last Heroes emerge from their Welsh retreat to do the honours. But the American Groups have organised their own protection - an American chapter. The inevitable rivalry and ill feeling is only averted when they are faced with a new threat - the satined and scented Skulls.
"This foursome erupted, or maybe vomited would be a better word, on to
the stage about the same time the lovable Foolsgold came into prominence. It
just wouldn’t be possible to imagine two more disparate groups. Where the young
boys wear clean white - admittedly rather tight-trousered - suits and sing light
little ditties about love lost and love found, this foursome of old men (their
average age is over thirty) sing songs about how screwing can give you the
clap. Mick Houghton
described them as 'musical excrement' and he's not wrong. They have a
devastating stage act that sends the young girls who make up most of their fans
screaming into hysteric frenzies. They are as big and dirty as anything around,
and their lyrics go with the looks."
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