![]() ![]() But once inside, I can see nothing but a nondescript man in a chair. I'd expected to be confronted by oodles of barely suppressed tension and leather-clad, pouty-mouthed, large-haired sexiness the visual shorthand of rock gods in general, and Jon Bon Jovi in particular. I have been ushered into the long, anonymous, overly air-conditioned room, past swathes of security guards dressed in seven shades of stern it's all quite portentous. It's early October, the night before Bon Jovi – the band Jon named, fronts and owns in any meaningful sense – will perform a sell-out stadium gig for 60,000 Brazilian fans. ![]() I meet him in the conference room of an expensive chain hotel located in the midst of São Paulo's endless urban sprawl. This is lucky, because from where I'm standing, the rest of him looks a bit like a crumpled middle-aged man in a lumberjack shirt. He'll unleash them on you with no warning smiling suddenly and broadly (maybe with irony, maybe flirtatiously, maybe just because he's tickled by something), and you'll find yourself mesmerised by the beauty of the man's gnashers. Jon Bon Jovi deploys them (quite knowingly, I am sure) to amazing effect. ![]() They are semi-threatening when bared, but blindingly, staggeringly glamorous otherwise. They are white and they are straight and there are lots and lots and lots of them. ![]() Jon Bon Jovi – long-serving rock god, philanthropist, ageing yet viable pin-up – has truly stupendous teeth. ![]()
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