It’s May 1985, and Bon Jovi are on stage at London’s Dominion Theatre, halfway through the UK leg of their 7800° Fahrenheit tour. Tickets are £3.50, and the mostly-male audience are confronted by a singer who doesn’t look like other singers. His clothes appear to be accessorised with female underwear. He has chiselled cheekbones, a radiant smile born of uncommonly perfect teeth, precisely tousled hair, and a glittering blue cloak that fans out in an arc from his body as he spins across the stage. To his right is an equally lithe guitarist, leather-clad and bare of chest. They’re clearly on to something. It’s a good show, but it’s a traditional rock crowd, and there’s a degree of suspicion about this duo’s very apparent prettiness.
For an audience who’ve only recently staggered out of the NWOBHM’s patchouli and sweat-scented trenches, Bon Jovi are a confounding prospect. But not everyone’s thrown: dotted throughout the crowd are young women, and they’re going nuts.
