FRANKIE GOES TO HOLLYWOOD/BELOUIS SOME
Greek Theatre, Los Angeles
EXACTLY when it dawned on me that this was the greatest show on earth is still beyond my comprehension.
It could have been when the Frankies returned for an encore in headbanger wigs —
It could have been when the schmaltzy “Power Of Love” assumed epic proportions and superceded “Knights In White Satin” as the soppiest anthem ever to touch deep in an emotional moment, just that crucial whisper from cliche, just that shiver from parody, sentimentalism shared. Or it could have been when Paul Rutherford, elegant as Errol Flynn, beautifully tanned, pierced nipple erect, poured a bottle of bevvy over his up-turned head and into his grinning gob; then ecstatically showered the front rows with spume. Or… I dunno.
It was just one of those nights and, from the off, I was gone. Even the first page of the programme, picturing Ped, the archetypal brickie, above the quote “Yeah, I’m well into Picasso” smacked of genius.
This Frankie show, criss-crossing the States like some sane extravaganza, was everything Morley’s purple prose promised. It has class —
It’s as if Frankie enjoy their songs rather than perform them, like lads cutting a rug to their favourite songs at their favourite disco. It’s showy without running amok, it’s precise and yet partying, chemical and comical, straightforward and subversive, fingerpointing and fun.
Which was a bit of a shame for Belouis Some because this young whippersnapper from Sarf London is already getting screamed at out here and he’d have toppled any other headliners over and out. His modern dance with memorable choruses and his style —
He worked hard to warm this crowd as the evening chilled and then, yes, Frankie came to Holywood. And Frankie conquered.