All The World Is A Stage is as you like it: Slade banging it out with loose, licentious ferocity, so brutish and raucous that you begin to question whether punk needed to happen, and you keep checking that a fleet of jumbo jets hasn’t landed in your ear canals. There’s Noddy Holder defying the laws of biology with a larynx made of sandpaper; Dave Hill convinced that if the same guy signed Hendrix and him then he himself must be a mean guitarist (at one show he bursts into a blast of Purple Haze); Jim Lea just about holding the gang together musically, bringing violins to thrashing mobs; and Don Powell somehow both keeping it grounded and racing ahead so the others have to turn it up from 11 to 9,000. What a racket. What a riot. Arguably, nobody did adrenalin better.