Rock has top billing tonight. No doubt stomach churning bass, feedback, overweight men and the stench of beer, fags and vomit awaits. Thankfully there’s no need to brace yourself for those sights and sounds if you’re at Wembley Arena. Avril Lavigne is in town. Its clean, genetically modified and about as scary as Mrs Osbourne’s "X Factor" appearances.
Hold that pogo just there for a second though and let’s first contemplate the Lavigne phenomenon. Ultimately, her global rise is rather laughable. Either that or it's genius. As packages go, she makes Britney’s schoolgirl game plan look half-baked. The imagery of the pre-show is pure Judas Priest meets The Sex Pistols. She dates a punk rocker, her rhetoric usually mentions the words ‘real’ and ‘artist’ and her puppy dog eyes and styled scruffiness make her a model teen idol.
So what started out as a bid for fame via the path marked ‘credible’ has rapidly spiralled way out of control as sales mounted. And mounted. Take a look at tonight’s audience - an odd mixture of pre-teen young girls, awkward teenagers encountering their first taste of rebellion and parents sporting perplexed expressions. Collectively they scream like Westlife were onstage and gleefully gorge themselves on overpriced official merchandising and soft drinks. Now, tell me this is Avril’s dream come true.
It doesn’t take a genius to work out that she’s going through the motions, already. Trouble is, she’s doesn’t possess the acting skills of Ms Spears and clearly finds it harder to withhold her frustrations that manifest themselves just one way - pure apathy. Looking like a miniature Jennifer Aniston and squeaking like Lisa Simpson, she showers us with inane clichés about it being “great to be here” and “you guys are arrr-some” without actually acknowledging where she is. As if she cares.
She tries to lose herself in the music but can’t. Unsurprisingly. It’s not that it’s bad and we all know she’s in possession of some quality hits, primarily tinged with ‘aren’t boys nasty’ bitterness such as "Sk8 Boi", "Happy Ending", "Who Knows" and "With You". However, sewn together so tightly, the formula’s weaknesses are exposed. Giant chorus after giant chorus grates and without the appropriate delivery, the whole thing is emotionless and obvious.
Believe it or not, Avril's saving grace comes in the unlikely form of the solo acoustic interlude. When it’s just her and a guitar, you can’t argue with the quality of her voice or playing. "Fall To Pieces" in particular strikes at the heart of all that’s good about tonight. Then it’s back to the treadmill of power pop. Avril alternates between weedy fist pumping and a spot of headbanging-lite to pass the time but soon gives up. There’s no-one to even banter with onstage and she’s lost, alone with a backing band desperately trying to justify their existence. She’s appears as engaged as the candyfloss sellers.
As the night wears on, the desire to lean over and spill the beans to the nearest under 10 grows and grows. When this moment arrives, you know its time to go and leave some things unsaid. Complicated? Far from it.
