Being rude about Westlife is neither original nor exciting, but sometimes such journalistic luxuries must be sacrificed in favour of the blunt force of truth. Put simply, war can be difficult, leprosy is a bit uncomfortable and Westlife are an unimaginably awful pop band.
The one and only interesting thing about the Irish five-piece is the enduring mystery of their success. In a pop market glutted with talented hopefuls, where even the brightest stars can be suddenly eclipsed by commercial failure, the continuing popularity of Westlife's pallid pop and bloated ballads makes no sense. It suggests a parallel commercial universe, where cat piss outsells Coke and George from Asda is more desirable than Prada.
Perhaps what sticks in the throat most is their sheer complacency. Their walk onstage is probably their moment of greatest exertion and their walk offstage certainly their moment of greatest achievement. The few moments when they bother to attempt dance routines, it seems that the five of them are attempting at least twelve different rhythms, and simply don't care.
That their audience adores them is beyond doubt, but it's a sadly unrequited love. Westlife remain aloof and untouchable, hiding behind platitudes and occasional cries of "ya havin a good time?" It's hard to think of any other artists - no matter how huge - who would risk rewarding their fans' hard earned money with so little imagination or effort.
And then there's the music. Opener 'When You're Looking Like That' has a bit of gusto and half a tune, but it's a rarity. Most of the show wallows in the gruesome balladry that has made Westlife's name. 'If I Let You Go' is a typically graceless exercise in tuneless schmaltz. Boyband ballads are difficult to pull off with any panache - Take That may have been the last to succeed - but Westlife don't even try.
The five have perfectly pleasant voices - in the case of Bryan McFadden, even an excellent, distinctive one - but their vocal arrangements bully rather than seduce. Each of the ballads ends with a final chorus sung twice as loud as the previous ones, a melodic trick as subtle and persuasive as Louis Walsh's fist in your face.
'Flying Without Wings', their most famous number, is invested all the trembling vocal chords and extravagant emoting that can only be summoned up from absolute insincerity. It's as if The Beatles had never existed, and the task of inventing pop music was passed down to Andrew Lloyd Weber.
It's not all as bad as this. Halfway through, the group break into a zippy montage of early pop classics - from 'I Get Around' to 'Great Balls of Fire' - which may just have saved a few offspring-escorting parents from suicide. For a moment a better world is conjured up, where pop is sexy, tunes infectious and the atmosphere lively. A world, in short, where Westlife don't exist.
