London Phoenix

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 powder.

He 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! Kick! Pout!

The rest 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.

Each 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.

However, 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.

Undoubtedly Boyzone are The Next Big Pin Ups. I enjoyed their shirts immensely.