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Iron Maiden: Pas de moshing, s’il vous plait!

Phil Sutcliffe, Q, January 1991

"MES AMIS, il faut que nous arretons un moment," says the longhaired singer in leather jacket, skintight sports trews and a French accent truly Churchillian in its valour and awfulness tous deux. Six thousand blue-denimed Parisians, reeling as the supportive thrust of 100 decibels against their breastbones is suddenly removed, fall to puzzled murmurs and Gallic shrugs. He takes his time, rests a boot on a stagefront monitor and leans forward, elbow on knee, faintly schoolmasterish of posture.

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