Royal Festival Hall, Friday 21st June
Well, I walked out. Apologies to everyone – the slavering journalists, the IPC Media-guzzling keep-uppers (the ones that went to Fischerspooner dressed as The Strokes, and will be at The Vines dressed as Fischerspooner), and David Bowie, whose fair hand granted New York’s latest hyped-up export a spot on the Meltdown Festival bill. You might be right; I might not get the joke.
I’m pretty sure I do get it. I just think it looks shabby and lifeless next to Gonzales’ more likable conceit. The one about him being an embittered, half-arsed music hall act, when he’s actually an insane genius with a fistful of quality tunes in his pink suit pocket. Stalking and strutting through ‘Take Me To Broadway,’ ‘The Joy of Thinking’ and ‘So-Called Party’ he’s a cross between Eminem and Kramer from Seinfeld; disrespectful, funky and very funny. And naturally he goes down like a lead glitterball.
When you’ve come for joyless art-school wank, I suppose nothing else will do. On one side of me Girl Who Should Never Drink #1 is heckling because she thinks Gonzales’ Entertainist-schtick is genuine, on the other GWSND #2 is lisping noisily and clambering on her seat like someone who’s out without parents for the first time and can’t quite process all the excitement. I’m reluctant to judge bands on the crowds they draw, but by now I’m concerned; worse still, Independent on Sunday critic Simon Price’s deeply offensive hair is homing into view with sad inevitability. ‘I love the crowd,’ spits Gonzales’ schizo entertainer, ‘I hate the crowd.’ Look closely; he’s smiling. This is proper, daft, jump-around-and-shout-stuff fun.
No such lowbrow pursuits for Fischerspooner. Tunes aside, the point of their sheer spectacle and stadium-rock exhibitionism is that there’s no point. It’s ironic, it’s cerebral, it’s Art For Art’s Sake come via Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret. But that doesn’t make it any cop. Here’s as far as I got: Behind the stage a big screen shows Casey Spooner and assorted dancers – whose elaborate hairpieces sadly lost their impact after Mr. Price took a turn around the grounds – getting ready. Spooner addresses the camera, wanting us to cheer good and loud before he treads the boards. Oops, no, that’s not loud enough. No, still not. No, he’s not going to perform. Or is he?
This carries on for five cutting-edge minutes. They come on, they go off. They come back. They start, they stop. Spooner gets everyone down the front to have a dance. They start again. Can you imagine? I know it’s all done in quotation marks, but it’s done with all the wit of a Butlin’s redcoat and all the stylistic edge of Starlight Express. Forget the hype and the veneer of irony; look at what you’re being sold. Take a big step back and really look. Only in NY and London can fashionable toss like this get applauded.
Did I mention that FS’ chunky electro, despite going little further than the current single Emerge, is worth a shuffle? No? Ah well. It sort of is, but they’re just not worth the effort. Functional on record, risible on stage. If you’re one of the gyppo-chic muppets that lapped the whole affair up, my mate and I are coming to find you one lunchtime in Soho Square – because that’s where you’ll be, isn’t it? – and we’re going to re-educate you R101-style. Yeah, the rat mask and everything. You so need it.
Nathan Lee. 2002
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