Even the best nostalgia gigs are only half-triumphs. No matter how good the songs or flattering the light, no matter how polished the bonhomie or affectionate the audience, the jollity’s always slightly strained by everyone trying hard to Have A Great Time.
Then there’s the Human League. Whether or not they’ve been consistently this excellent or have just hit their middle-aged stride, they deliver a show so vital, hip and contemporary-sounding it could trump gigs by bands formed next Wednesday. Sure, electroclash and boystown club culture may be the reasons the house is packed with hipsters, but you don’t have to be wearing a Scissor Sisters fedora to do the “I’m not worthy” shuffle tonight. From the deadpan mechanical savagery of 1978’s “Being Boiled” or “Empire State Human” to the beat-nicked menace of 1999’s All Seeing I collaboration “1st Man In Space”, you leave dazzled. And - if you’re anywhere near the age of the three principal Leaguers - hugging yourself with fellow-oldies.
Somehow, they’ve got their hands on some unfair advantages. There’s the hits, of course, served up with sharp precision and crystal-clear sound. And what hits! Swaggering opener “Mirror Man”, only slightly undercut by Phil loping onstage in what looks alarmingly like a cassock before he changes into a long, lean suit. “Open Your Heart”; “Tell Me When”; “The Lebanon” (cackhanded lyric and all); Susanna’s sultry serving of Jam & Lewis’ “Just Be Good To Me”. “Heart Like A Wheel”, updated with a keenly polemical backdrop of Iraq war statistics; a stopwatch-timed “Love Action”; the magnificently era-defining “Don’t You Want Me”; the soaringly sweet “Electric Dreams”, as durable as its parent film was forgettable.
All this you hope for, but the added-value extras seal the deal. A stage full of shamelessly retro gear: ludicrous synth-drums and vocoders; that funny-looking keyboard shaped like a guitar (and a puppyish, bondage-trousered metal kid attacking it). A groovy white stage set constructed with care and more cash than your average retro act (or Yorkshireman) bothers to splash out. And – we must be frank – the jaw-droppingly fit, foxy and fashionista-fierce duo of Joanne Catherall and Susanne Sulley, making grown men weep and trend-ettes half their age sulk and take notes.
In short, a charming triumph. Only the most scrupulous inspection suggests anything but a band at its championship peak. Ninety five per cent of the time Oakey’s voice is ripe, rich and powerful; when it goes croaky in an otherwise pristine and shimmering “Human”, you get an endearing glimpse of the determined paddling going on under the glass-smooth surface.
They said it wouldn’t last, you know, this plastic disco music. When well-designed and properly constructed, however, plastic takes about a million years to show its age.
