THE BEAUTIFUL SOUTH
London Shepherd's Bush Empire
"... Elbows flail. Benetton jumpers sizzle. And on go the T-shirts.
Tonight, 300 grotesquely level-headed Southerners will head back to
Ground Floor'n'Patio Ikea flats in BS T-shirts which say 'Northern Scum'
in big, bold, piss-taking letters. Having foregone their regular Wembley
Arena venues for a more 'intimate' event The Beautiful South have
brought a mood of pressure-cookered office party euphoria to the Empire.
Even before Paul Heaton's Mr Machiavelli Of Radio 2 presence has
(dis)graced the stage, the subliminal mind-feeding has started.
Unaccompanied but for an acoustic murmur, the unassuming figure of
Jackie applies her sweet ironing-board tones to 'Don't Marry Me', and
the throng drown her out singing of car washing, kitchens and cul-de-sac
lust. And here's Heato, the voyeur alchemist grouch, jutting out his
chin, fag puffing madly just like a genius curmudgeon should do.
'You Keep It All In' starts with its agony aunt observations of
repression. The vocals are right up. The tea shoppe blend of
Heaton'n'Jackie and the gang of Dave's thrust forward the lyrics. And
'We Are Each Other' completes the home truths threesome, whacking that
sensitive spot of 30-something couples (the love affair dimming to
claustrophobia) like a penpusher hooligan. The South, see, are a
ruthless machine. More cheese? OK. Plop. Heaton's back for the jolly
tune/hungover sentiments of 'Have Fun'. In the musical dough of the
band's ordered embellishments, Heaton's more evilly soused lines are
lost. For 'Everybody's Talking', everybody talks so much that the band
are inaudible. Nothing steps over the cosy parameters of Phil Collins'
golf-club musak tapes. Except, that is, for El Heato himself.
Heato struts. He puffs. He swigs champagne and gobs it on to the stage.
"This is a very sad one. It's about a tit mag," he announces. "Can you
see me knob from up there in the balcony?... Stop laughing bar people,
just serve the drinks..." As the greatest hits skip past, mildly ironic,
quaintly soulful, and timidly jaunty, Heaton keeps on with his boozy,
Southern-sucker taunting spite act. But no-one in the crowd seems to
care. They have their Northern Scum T-shirts. What a laugh! They have
mortgages to worry about. And Heaton, the sensitive hooligan, the
dirty-mouthed choir boy, is to be indulged after all.
The encores plop out. The office party peaks. And Heaton's flaunting
lines from 'Song For Whoever' slither out the back exit unobserved. "You
made me so much money I wrote a song for you..." they sing. Yes, the South
have triumphed. They are champions in the Everything But The Simply Reds
League. But the embrace of the disposable income mainstream appears to
have made Heaton one of the most contorted individuals in pop. Next
year's T-shirts should come clean. They should simply say 'The Cynical
Midlands'."
Roger Morton
The complete reviews of PEARL JAM, GALLON DRUNK, GENE, THE BEAUTIFUL SOUTH and KENICKIE/ ORLANDO
feature in NME, November 9, along with carefully considered,
beer-soaked reports of
CAIN, JERU THE DAMAJA
, TIM ROSE, PROLAPSE/ TEENAGERS IN TROUBLE, THE PASTELS/ GANGER
, EMBRACE,
and
LOW.
© 1996 IPC MAGAZINES LIMITED ENGLAND
