THE SINGER in Boyzone is a
strange hybrid of Simon Le Bon and Bonnie
Langford. He talks to the young girls at
the front in a manner both narcissistic
and patronising, in tone if not always
content. "Are you ready for
us?" he smugly inquires.
"Yes", they squeal and the
atmosphere becomes charged with talcum
warbles (and I use this term advisedly)
about "the fountains of you ou ou ou
outh" and his studied dance pattern
unfolds: One and two and three and Turn!
of the group, with one exception, share
the vocalist's predilection for long hair
swept to the rear and allowed to fall, in
casual waves, past the shoulder blades.
The exception is the bass player. The
sides of his head are shaven and on top
sits an unruly black mop. The cuties
harbour a punk! In future months one
imagines the poor creature being
relentlessly prodded and teased by the
colour pop mags desperate for the inside
info on his outrageous demeanour.
number is executed with a fixed grin, a
minimum of emotional fuss and a telling
degree of musical competence. it becomes
quite clear that they possess the skills
to play, y'know, interesting
music. But with rare variation comes a
light pop/funk rhythm doctored by the
occasional crack of a syn drum and topped
by profoundly anaesthetizing melodies.
the spaces between the songs are filled
with screams. Screams! Not mine but those
of the young girls who swirl their cheap
necklaces with abandon.
Boyzone are The Next Big Pin Ups. I
enjoyed their shirts immensely.