move

I'll get something straight with you from the start: there is no way i would have given Suede a bad review. And if you know me, you know that very well. The only way I can express to you what it was like to wait for three years to see my favourite band, and furthermore to admire Bowie on such a godlike level that i had sort of come to accept that i was about as likely to see him live as i was to recieve a torpical island for christmas, and then find out that both of them were playing a gig in manchester that I could go to so easily, would be to make you imagine a world without chocolate or icecream, and then all of a sudden discover that someone has invented....um....chocolate ice cream.
Better still, imagine that the world had run dry of both. Then, all of a sudden, this alien spaceship lands, and informs you that for thirty-one pounds, you can own ten fridgeloads of said confectionary item. The signs aren't good- remember what the press said beforehand? "oh, chocolate's just not the same now- dated, cliched, coughing up all the same tricks. and ice cream's so old your granddad can still remember it first being brought out". the thing is, you've missed chocolate and icecream so much that you couldn't care less if you opened it and it smelt and tasted like shit. you just jump in, don't you? and when people ask, you say, "yeah, it tasted great".
as little as you may believe me after that long-winded and rather far-fetched sting of figlang, i'm afraid to say that i'm not actually about to tell a single lie. i went into that gig with a fallen face and a headful of doubt and came out with, amongst various flu symtoms and diseases, an unstoppably large smile on my face induced by a band i was prepared to lie for, but never actually needed to. excuse my shock, but fuck me backwards with a broomstick- they were great.
the support bands, though....hmm. that's all you can rally say about The Real People- "Hmm". That or, "When do they finish, again?". Scouse indie that makes Cast look impressive. Like, wow.
The Electric Soft Parade- they of large duffel coat, interchangable drummer and incredibly stupid name, take the stage to quite a similar lack of enthusiasm. Rumbling through "Empty in the end" and a few other songs that nobody knows and that sound like outtakes from Blur's "13", then walking off like a wet weekend after everyone in the crowd followed their one request for a singalong with deadly silence, the Parade feels just like a protocol rather than a celebration. Well, what did they exprect, really? At least they were only on for half an hour, i find myself thinking. Which is less than I could say for the Divine Comedy.
Yes, I've finally answered a question I've been seeking to answer for some time: who are the worst band I've ever seen live? For a while I thought it might have been Embrace. Or Crackout. Or My Lady Peace. Or maybe Papa Roach. But The Divine Comedy managed, somehow, to fulfil what I thought was an unnatainable goal, and managed to be worse than all four put together as the exact opposite of a supergroup, with that bloke from Nickelback on vocals. In amongst Neil Hannon's "interjections of wry humour" (long, bad jokes placed there to fill up time/distract the now lightly pissed crowd from their astoundingly lame musical ability), their far-too-cheery songs about Summerhouses and drinking Dandelion and Burdock and skipping through fields or whatever the fuck their songs are about soak up an hour of your life, and you can notice it. You really can notice it. And you become unavoidably aware that Hannon is actually treating you to an hour of musical diahorrea.
So what could possibly clear it up, really? A thunderstorm? A tidal wave? a nuclear bomb? or even better: a band that make guitar pop of the finest kaliber that has the same effect as all three happening at the same time.
Suede take the stage in a mood that's about as unenthusiastic as a dinnerlady serving pink custard for the millionth time ever. exactly what i expected from them. fantastic. they begin with a new number (never usually a good move in my books, especially when the album's not even out), by the name of 2you beautiful loser". it's a traditional tune of theirs: tv screens with the sound turned down, flowers picked by the side of the road. though strangely for them, this ode to a fatally lazy working-class maiden is somewhat understated, hence giving it an extra shimmer, reminiscant of that on such tracks as "indian strings" from "head music". then after that breath of fresh air the crowd are pummelled to the floor with a straight barrage of old favourites: "she", "trash", "metal mickey".

David Bowie, Suede, various other pointless bands.
Manchester Old Trafford Cricket Ground
10th July, 2002.