The following is a review from this week's Melody Maker. I won't even lower
myself to comment, except to say that Mr Mark Beaumont, you are a fool.
MADNESS,
WEMBLEY ARENA, LONDON
There is no sound more tragic than the mournful parp of a steamer horn and
the dutiful shuffle of men, ranked among the best pop songwriters of their
era, perparing to nutty dance their way up the river Nile one more time, all
in the name of 'aving 15 pintsa laargah an' a raight bleedin' laaaarff. A
truly tragic spectacle, the Millennium Madness Knees-Up, because when they
first split - about, ooooh, 63 reunion gigs ago - they were on the verge of
burning the mile-wide kecks, burying that squealing bastard saxaphone of
theirs and becoming, of all things, respectable.
But respect clearly has the same effect on Suggs and company as the Ebola
virus has on a plump liver. Hence the fact that six middle-aged 'Lock,
Stock...' extras and one twat in a bowler hat are knee-jumping through Va
Classicks. With nary a nod to some of their darker, late-period masterpieces
(''Victoria Gardens'', ''Waiting For The Ghost Train''), it's
baggy-trousered, condom-bewildered, heavy-heavy-monster-bastard lumps of
predictability from ''The Prince'' to ''Baggy Trousers'' to ''Our House''
and back again in a big, lumbering conga of pure nostalgia.
Greatest Hits muppets kneeing their best material in the nadgers for large
crates of cash, then. And they couldah bin contendahhhs...
Mark Beaumont
(2 and a half stars out of five)
-
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