There aren't many 58 year old blokes who can excite a crowd into teenybopper-style screaming as he enters the stage - but then Billy Idol has always been an exception.
In the punk era, his band Generation X didn't fit with the political posturing of bands like The Clash - and they were never quite pantomime enough to rival The Damned
What they were was a bloody good powerpop band - before the phrase had even been coined. Your Generation, Ready Steady Go, King Rocker - these were classics of their kind.
Then there was Idol's second, mid-80's American phase, when again he was ostracised by the critics but delivered another bunch of hummable hits - including Rebel Yell, Dancing With Myself, and Eyes Without A Face.
I mean, what's not to like about that lot?
And now there's Billy - Version 3. The older, wiser, more mature autobiographer whose new album Kings And Queens Of The Underground reflects his personal battles with drugs and celebrity.
So it's in a positive frame that I head to see the opening night of his UK tour in Brum.
First impression of the crowd? Admirably varied in age - from veterans of the '77 era to pre-teens.
And even the girlie screaming didn't put me off - even approaching 60, our Bill is handsome bloke, and he has a ripped body testifying to long hours in the gym.
So what went wrong? Simple, somewhere along the line Billy and his band mutated into the kind of masturbatory wank that punk set out to demolish. I think they call it Rock.
Axeman Steve Stevens - who with his Robert Smith barnet and double chin would surely pass an audition for the remake of Spinal Tap - was chief offender in the realms of self indulgence. I mean - a solo demonstrating his virtuosity in Spanish guitar???
And then there was Billy himself, playing all those tiresome stadium rock tricks - gurning when he thinks he's snarling, shaking his fist like a second rate prize fighter.
There were decent moments - King Rocker still cut through - but we could have lived without the droning, drawn out cover of The Doors L.A. Woman and wimpy, acoustic version of his one bona fide classic White Wedding.
I could have forgiven the fact that on the night Cathy Macgow-wow-wow-wow-wan didn't get a look in, if only Idol had stayed true to the spirit of his early days. But this was the kind of dumb-ass rock Homer Simpson would have boogied too.
Given the ecstatic reception he received, I'm obviously in a tiny minority in loathing this gig - but for me, Billy is an idol no more.