Montreal, Canada

It's been ten years at least since I saw Alice Cooper play at the much-missed Astoria. Never having been much of a fan I was surprised not only at how many songs I knew, but also at how damn good he was. So tonight I'm looking forward to re-acquainting myself with the forefather of Marilyn Manson, Rob Zombie and a whole bunch more ghoulish rock'n'roll villains.

He's already on stage when Paul and I get out front, swashbuckling a sword and tearing through 'I'm 18' with the vigour of a man half his age... which would still make the song of teenage rebellion somewhat ludicrous but hey, it's pantomime, complete with Alice's trademark black eye make-up, and a sense of the ridiculous is de rigeur.

But the band's stage-craft is deadly serious and you don't get to command stages like this in the fifth decade of your career without being a consummate entertainer. Surrounded by a well-drilled and much younger band, Alice is in fine voice, prowling the stage brandishing a snake for 'No More Mr Nice Guy' and conducting a mass singalong during 'Hey Stoopid'.

He takes a break, and a costume change, while Orianthe, the virtuoso guitarist from Michael Jackson's last band, performs a devastating guitar solo, her fingers flying up and down the fretboard at lightning speed.

For 'Billion Dollar Baby' he picks up what looks like a feather duster and for a second I could swear he's Ken Dodd, but then he flings it around and hundreds of dollar bills fly off into the crowd leaving him with rapier in hand.

The full-schlock horror theatrical extravaganza gets turned up a notch for 'Feed My Frankenstein' with Alice in a bloody white doctor's coat as a 15ft tall monster  lurches around the stage.

The hits keep coming with '80s classic 'Poison' leading into the fake-Nazi stomp of 'Wicked Young Man', where Alice impales a stage-invading paparazzi before being dragged to a guillotine and, in a great piece of magic, is beheaded on stage.

Naturally, he reappears, in a studded top hat, for a brilliant finale of his biggest anthem, 'School's Out', which morphs into 'Another Brick In The Wall pt 2', complete with explosions, balloons and streamers, sending the by-now capacity crowd crazy.

There's not many bands in the world who could follow that, let alone willingly invite them to be the support slot. But then there's not many bands in the world like Maiden.

Paul and I take our places at the mixing desk and prepare for one of the most anticipated set's of the band's illustrious career. This is the greatest hits tour, themed around their landmark 'Seventh Son Of A Seventh Son' album from 1988, and it starts with the video screens bursting into life with images of icy landscapes and the sounds of stirring orchestras.

All around us the air is thick with the sweet smell of pungent weed, as the audience roar with anticipation and then, with enough pyro to start a war, the band appear and launch straight into 'Moonchild' followed by a a searing 'Can I Play With Madness?', at ear-shattering volume. It's like standing in a sonic wind tunnel.

Bruce, ever the renaissance man, speaks to the audience in fluent French, explaining the concept of tonight's show, and the fact the band will be delving deep into their vast catalogue. Rarely played numbers like 'The Prisoner' and 'Afraid To Shoot Strangers' get great receptions while stone cold classics such as 'Two Minutes To Midnight and 'The Trooper' blow the roof off the place. But it's 'Number Of The Beast' that demonstrates just how devastating Maiden are live, with more hellfire spewing from the stage than I've ever seen. It's quite literally awe-inspiring.

'Phantom Of The Opera' and 'Wasted Years' are both reminders of the band's songwriting power and virtuoso guitar playing and then, without a breath, it's into 'Run To The Hills' which has all 15,000 Canadians screaming every word at the top of their lungs, with Eddie, as a US Civil War General Custer, making an appearance. It's amongst the most thrilling moments Maiden have done, combined with an epic firework fountain.

The centrepiece of the show is 'Seventh Son Of A Seventh Son' itself. A huge, devilish Eddie with glowing eyes, clutching a feather quill and holding a globe, rises and Bruce in long coat appears to tell the tale of a doomed child with powers of clairvoyancy. It's a long time since this classic has been dusted down and it's been well worth the wait; Bruce holding notes for almost inhuman amounts of time to deafening cheers from the crowd, its Floydian prog-moods and atmospheric lighting bringing to mind 'Rime Of The Ancient Mariner' from a few tours ago.

From there we get 'The Clairvoyant' before they hit the home straight with 'Fear Of The Dark'. Not quite the Latin singalong it is when hitting the Tropics it's still a potent piece of drama. And finally their signature song itself finishes the main set with a breathtaking Eddie, clutching a beating heart, looming high over the drumkit.

Only moments later they return with a spectacular trio of encores in the form of 'Aces High', 'The Evil That Men Do' and 'Running Free' and then they're gone. Quite possibly the best set I've ever seen them do. I can't with to see it again in Toronto, although the way my ears are ringing I'm going to be hearing it echoing for some hours still tonight.