It looks and feels like a sell-out the moment you walk in. That low hum of expectation, that shared glance between strangers that says, yeah, this is going to be a good one.
Kelly Jones strolls on looking clean and cool like he always does and honestly, how has the man not aged? I can’t decide if they’re a little softer than I remember back in the day or if I’ve just spent too many years drowning myself in punk. Either way, softer doesn’t mean slack. They’re super tight, exactly as you’d expect.
They bounce straight in with Vegas Two Times, followed by I Wanna Get Lost With You and Have a Nice Day, setting out their stall early. The middle runway stage is a brilliant move and, crucially, it actually gets used, pulling the band right into the crowd and giving the whole thing a more intimate, slightly dangerous edge. This is a sexy show. No two ways about it.
As the set rolls on through There’s Always Gonna Be Something, a beautifully received Local Boy in the Photograph dedicated to Mani and stitched with a snippet of Waterfall, then Pick a Part That’s New, Rewind and Superman, the band look completely at ease. Geronimo and Maybe Tomorrow slow things just enough before Colours of October and More Life in a Tramp’s Vest nudge the energy back up.
It brings back a quote I heard sometime in the 90s. “If we could print Kelly’s face on dildos, we’d be millionaires.” Turns out they chose the rock ’n’ roll route instead. Probably the healthier option.
There’s a cheeky ribbing of the Coldplay affair moment, cameras whizzing around the crowd before sliding perfectly into Mr and Mrs Smith. It’s very apt and lands exactly as it should. Earlier, I Wouldn’t Believe Your Radio appears on ukulele, stripped back and charming, before Mr Writer and Seems Like You’d Make a Good Model steer things back into familiar territory.
Jamie Morrison then steps forward for a cracking drum solo, leaving the crowd chanting “Jamie, Jamie” like we’re at a derby match. Fully deserved. Kelly follows with a solo acoustic snippet of Indian Summer, played by request and aimed squarely at the fan girls. Job done.
The real electrification hits with The Bartender and the Thief, turbocharged by a flash of Motörhead’s Ace of Spades, before tearing through 100MPH, Traffic and C’est la Vie. That’s the jolt. That’s the pulse.
Encore time and now we’re talking. This is the aggression I knew and loved. Latex balloons come with an allergy warning during We Don’t Belong Anywhere, dragging even the seated sections to their feet. Resistance is pointless by this stage.
And then there’s Dakota. Everyone up, everyone in, arms aloft and voices gone. Older, maybe. Softer around the edges, possibly. But still capable of flipping a switch and reminding you exactly why they mattered then and still do now.
Still got it. Still know it. Still feel it.
PHOTO CREDIT – HELS MILLINGTON
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