Dream And Scream
[Melody Maker, 17th September 1983. Words: Barry McIlheney. Picture: Uncredited.]
DREAM AND SCREAM
Everything counts, particularly in the pop star vacuum of Belfast, and tonight everything added up to pretty near perfect. Because so far this year all we’ve had is a succession of major cult figures – great for crooning along to Costello or for watching the solemn antics of the Bunnymen, but not too much fun in the way of fully-fledged teenage and underage heroes.
And there is, after all, a conflict in every human heart. A conflict between the fun and games enshrined in the doctrine of eternal pop, and a slightly heavier attitude which is expressed through the more oblique work of the gentlemen just mentioned; and a conflict which has been fought out in a most one-sided way with the old and the wise winning hands down.
Up until last Saturday night, that is, when a superb performance by the wonderfully poppy Depeche Mode finally brought a big smile back to what in terms of live experiences, can truly be called a lost generation.
Not that the Basildon Boys are purely and simply an act for the scarves and sweat market. They are, however, undeniably pure and simple, at least for most of their hour-and-a-bit on stage. There is the occasional moment of strange behaviour, especially when heart-throb Gahan leaves the action in the hands of his grumpier companions, and they go all industrial for a while, conjuring up the kind of nonsense which is best left to people like the ridiculously po-faced Ultravox.
There is also from time to time the dangerous whiff of a growing conspiracy afoot, at its strongest when dreamboat Dave wiggles his bum – a gesture which brought about rampant hysteria from all sides – and suggests that the excellent musicians in this band could well be inclined to go off and do a Vince, perhaps feeling that nobody is taking it seriously any more. Such a move would undoubtedly be interesting but very fatal and should be counselled against at every available opportunity. Don’t go, lads.
Apart from these rare sinister moments, however, it was a night for the screamers, with the hits coming out in mint condition and even the odd filler track being considerably enlivened by disco Dave’s inspired footwork across the floor. It’s probably bad form playing the couple of gems that rightfully belong to old Vince, but then nobody round here is going to tell them.
There are very few bands who can produce two songwriters of the quality of Clarke and Gore, and even fewer who can produce the end product in a manner so flawless and powerful as to overcome any lingering accusations of tweeness or monotony.
Tonight the long lonely months of waiting for someone to go quite daft over were soon forgotten and there were many here who had the wisdom to appreciate the rare quality of what they had just seen. Namely, an inspired live performance by the best and most grossly underrated young pop band in Britain today.
[Melody Maker, 17th September 1983. Words: Barry McIlheney. Picture: Uncredited.]
DREAM AND SCREAM
Everything counts, particularly in the pop star vacuum of Belfast, and tonight everything added up to pretty near perfect. Because so far this year all we’ve had is a succession of major cult figures – great for crooning along to Costello or for watching the solemn antics of the Bunnymen, but not too much fun in the way of fully-fledged teenage and underage heroes.
And there is, after all, a conflict in every human heart. A conflict between the fun and games enshrined in the doctrine of eternal pop, and a slightly heavier attitude which is expressed through the more oblique work of the gentlemen just mentioned; and a conflict which has been fought out in a most one-sided way with the old and the wise winning hands down.
Up until last Saturday night, that is, when a superb performance by the wonderfully poppy Depeche Mode finally brought a big smile back to what in terms of live experiences, can truly be called a lost generation.
Not that the Basildon Boys are purely and simply an act for the scarves and sweat market. They are, however, undeniably pure and simple, at least for most of their hour-and-a-bit on stage. There is the occasional moment of strange behaviour, especially when heart-throb Gahan leaves the action in the hands of his grumpier companions, and they go all industrial for a while, conjuring up the kind of nonsense which is best left to people like the ridiculously po-faced Ultravox.
There is also from time to time the dangerous whiff of a growing conspiracy afoot, at its strongest when dreamboat Dave wiggles his bum – a gesture which brought about rampant hysteria from all sides – and suggests that the excellent musicians in this band could well be inclined to go off and do a Vince, perhaps feeling that nobody is taking it seriously any more. Such a move would undoubtedly be interesting but very fatal and should be counselled against at every available opportunity. Don’t go, lads.
Apart from these rare sinister moments, however, it was a night for the screamers, with the hits coming out in mint condition and even the odd filler track being considerably enlivened by disco Dave’s inspired footwork across the floor. It’s probably bad form playing the couple of gems that rightfully belong to old Vince, but then nobody round here is going to tell them.
There are very few bands who can produce two songwriters of the quality of Clarke and Gore, and even fewer who can produce the end product in a manner so flawless and powerful as to overcome any lingering accusations of tweeness or monotony.
Tonight the long lonely months of waiting for someone to go quite daft over were soon forgotten and there were many here who had the wisdom to appreciate the rare quality of what they had just seen. Namely, an inspired live performance by the best and most grossly underrated young pop band in Britain today.
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