'Money Can't Buy' is the tagline of this one-off gig by the arse from Oz. It basically means that - instead of H&M proles - we're surrounded by media slags and the cream of the C-list (hey look, it's Martin Rossiter from Gene and one of Mis-Teeq!) On a deeper level though (and we know it's never a good idea to get deep when talking about Ms Minogue, but bear with us), money and what it can and can't buy you is at the root of the Kylie conundrum.
With seven Number Ones to her name, the memory of 'I Should Be So Lucky' fading fast, and 'Can't Get You Out Of My Head' winning her real credibility for the first time ever, Kylie should have everything at her disposal. She should be in the same place Madonna reached around the time of 'Vogue' - i.e. standing tall on pop's podium with vast swathes of the world's best songwriters, producers, stylists and choreographers at her feet.
And yet somehow, she's ended up here. She's ended up with Emiliana Torrini (the bargain-bin Bjork) and Karen Poole (from - sh*t almighty! - Alisha's Attic) writing her songs. She's got dancers who are - and let's not get too technical here - f*cking sh*t. She's been decked out in what is basically a cat burglar's outfit that's shrunk in the wash. The opening 'extravaganza' involves her sitting suspended on a girder which is then, er, lowered slowly to the floor (pop thrills: will she fall off? Will the girder come loose and crash into the audience and kill the kids? Will Johnny Vegas suddenly fall onto the other end sending Kylie shooting into the balcony? No).
How did this happen? Kylie's always been an absolutely rubbish try-hard with a nothing voice, but surely now she can finally buy success like Madonna did, can't she? It would appear not. While the music and singing is pitch-perfect throughout (suggesting we're actually listening more to Second Backing-Vocalist From The Left than Kylie Minogue for much of the time), the routines are lacklustre and the set-list consists of far too many slight, r'n'b-propelled numbers from her tedious new 'Body Language' album. Things comes together once, on 'Slow', where the hum of the song, the pulse of LCD lights, and the jerk of dancers who look like gay sci-fi miners having fits is all genuinely compelling.
But you're left wondering where Kylie's ambition went. Her album and this show prove she's coasting on a wave of goodwill inspired by 'Can't Get You Out Of My Head'. She's probably quite content to drift along like this for years, but it makes for a less-than-thrilling gig experience. The one reassuring thought we can all leave with tonight is at least we didn't have to pay for it.
