Explosions, 40ft flames, light shows and back projections. It may have been at the Dome but at times it felt more like being in a music video. A mini-film opened the concert. Rush circa 1973 were boys called Rash, and they’d play only when professor Alex Lifeson operated his music machine. The contraption also had a button marked “Time Machine”. When pressed this catapulted the band, on stage, back and forth through their 37-year career. Every time the trio played songs from a different era, screens announced the year.

All of rock is here. Like, really, all of it. One tries to avoid too many direct comparisons with other artists in a review but with Foo Fighters it's impossible. Just on my first casual listen through this album, I jotted down the following reference points: Sonic Youth, Metallica, The Kinks, Bryan Adams, Crosby, Stills and Nash, Guns N' Roses, Fleetwood Mac, Soundgarden, Marilyn Manson, Queens of the Stone Age, Eighties Ozzy Osbourne, Wings, Foreigner, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest and Pixies. Oh OK, yes, and a little Nirvana too. It's as if five decades of rock – and, note well, only rock – music has been telescoped down into each track, without regard for any notion of timeliness or cool whatsoever, just the desire to turn it up to 11 and get every man, woman and child on the planet chanting along and pumping their fists.

Often at gigs by bands of a certain vintage, the fans can look like they're on a special awayday: like they've dug their T-shirts out of the back of the drawer and geared themselves up for one last canter round the paddock. Not so for Killing Joke. At the Royal Festival Hall last night, a very large section of the crowd had the look of still actively living very rock'n'roll lives, and of having done so for at least the last 30 years. “How many times have you seen them?” asked a shaven-headed gent in the seat next to me. “This'll be my 46th Joke gig,” he continued with obvious pride.

It’s an important year for Estonia. The Baltic nation celebrates 20 years of independence from Russia. Capital city Tallinn is European Capital of Culture for 2011. It’s also 10 years since their Eurovision win. theartsdesk is here for Tallinn Music Week, the third annual celebration of the country’s music. Integral to the national fabric, music was fundamental to the independence movement: the move to split from Russia was dubbed “The Singing Revolution”. Tallinn Music Week is more than bands playing and DJs DJing – this festival is laden with meaning.

Fresh from being anointed a Godlike Genius at this week's Shockwaves NME Awards, Dave Grohl celebrated with a roaring two-hour set with his recharged Foo Fighters at Wembley Arena, still a dismal dive despite the major refurbishment which put the entrance at the wrong end. However, Dave basks in the reputation of being the Nicest Man in Rock and a thoroughly good egg (Lemmy says so, and nobody argues with him), and he successfully flooded this unprepossessing shed with good vibes mixed with shattering quantities of decibels.

As Ozzy Osbourne puts it, “He’s just Lemmy. You just take him or you fucking don’t, and he doesn’t give a flying shit whether you do or not.” It’s this irreducible Lemmyness of Lemmy which lies at the core of the gnarled heavy metaller’s mystique. Beyond fashion, as ageless as a rock’n’roll Flying Dutchman and with a constitution seemingly forged from buffalo hide and wrought iron, Ian Fraser “Lemmy” Kilmister is surrounded by his own private myth-bubble wherever he goes.

The music of Sibelius might speak of Finland, its unpopulated spaces, vast inland lakes, semi-Arctic climate and long, dark nights, but the annual Lost in Music festival brings together a bewildering array of Finnish bands and singers that range from rockabilly and ska to introspective folk and – of course, the national staple – heavy metal.

"The Legend of Axl Rose" sounds like the title for a long and fanciful western movie, about a bandit who defies the law and even time itself. In person, wayward vocalist Rose does indeed resemble some kind of picaresque outlaw who rules his own eccentric kingdom, and he lent much-needed gaiety to this sprawling performance by constantly ringing the changes on a huge wardrobe of hats, jackets and multi-coloured T-shirts.