Still Crazee After All These Years: Slade, Dave Hill, and the Politics of Joy

History has nudged Slade from cultural force to kitsch cartoon glam, without stripping away the warmth, humour, or end-of-night singalong spirit that made them endure.

Yet, that shift in perception can obscure a simple truth: Slade were genuinely massive. Six UK number-one singles. Seventeen consecutive Top 20 hits. They weren’t a quirky footnote of the glam era, they were the freaking headline.

Cum On Feel the Noize, Mama Weer All Crazee Now et al, these weren’t just radio hits. They were choruses that trained crowds how to respond. Slade understood collective energy better than most so-called serious bands ever will. Floyd anybody? Their genius wasn’t subtle. It was social.

But British music criticism still clings to its distrust of volume, joy, and popularity, especially the working-class kind. Slade didn’t just fail to fit the critical canon. No, they actively challenged it making music for people, not prestige. And that, for me at least, should count for more, not less.

Dave Hill: Glitter and Graft

Dave Hill’s place in this story is usually told in sparkles and sidesteps: the hair, the platform boots, the Rolls-Royce renting. Yep, that story’s true. But it’s not tragic. It’s pragmatic. Slade came from Wolverhampton, not art school. When the machine stopped calling, Hill kept moving.

Noddy Holder and Jim Lea rightly own the songwriting legacy. But Hill brought something else. His guitar work was unflashy but fierce. His look? Unmistakable. His understanding of glam? Deeper than the surface. We all know by now that glam wasn’t just about image, don’t we? It was about permission. To be seen. To be loud. To matter. Hill got that.

Liverpool, December 2025

The O2 Academy in Liverpool doesn’t have the glamour of history, but it feels right. You earn the gig, a long, joint-cracking climb from street to stage. Inside, though, it works: tight, loud, intimate. Slade never belonged in polite theatres. They belong here, where the floor bounces and the crowd leans in.

This show was framed as a farewell, but Hill quickly shot that down. Not a goodbye, he said, rather a misunderstanding, it’s just a step back from the slog of full tours. One-offs remain on the cards. The crowd, myself included, breathed easier. No one came here for closure. They came for confirmation that this music still lives.

And it does. Hill leads a current lineup that doesn’t mimic, it functions. John Berry (vocals, bass, violin), Russell Keefe (keys, vocals), and Alex Bines (drums) keep it sharp and tight. They’re not tribute players. They’re a band. And they sound like it.

For me, the emotional centre was Everyday. No gimmicks, no tricks. Just a straight delivery of one of the best love songs of the seventies, maybe any decade. It stopped the room. I found myself crying. Not for the past, but for the song’s sincerity. Its utter refusal of irony. It meant it, and in that moment, everything stopped.

The Hits Still Hit

When the momentum locked in, it was undeniable. Far Far Away swelled, but never sagged. Mama Weer All Crazee Now exploded, as ought it should, messy, loud, and truly fucking glorious. Coz I Luv You drifted like a drunken promise, still tender through that warped violin line. And of course, Merry Xmas Everybody closed the night. Odd perhaps how it’s falling down the pecking order of Christmas hits, being removed from radio, and streaming playlists in favour of Mariah (yikes!). Live, it’s a seasonal rite. Everyone sang. Everyone smiled. It wasn’t corny. It was communal.

There was a mid-set lull, a few too many stories, a visible lean toward the bar. Fair play: even Slade aren’t immune to pacing issues. And the support act? Sons of the Seventies, were polished, and for me at least, forgettable. A wedding band with delusions of relevance. You shouldn’t open for Slade and play it safe.

Hill, nearing 80, was solid throughout. Generous with stories. Respectful of legacy. Still playing like it matters. And it does.

Slade never made records for critics. They made them for us. For the pub, the party, the piled-in venue. They weren’t just entertainers. They were architects of communal noise.

If you think artistry only lives in restraint and reinvention, you’ll never get it. But if you understand that showing up, playing hard, and never sneering at your audience is its own kind of greatness, then Dave Hill, and his presentation of Slade, still have something to teach.

They didn’t burn out. They didn’t fade away. They just kept playing.