With a capacity crowd ranging from grannies to grommets, and myself walking around whistling Jealous Guy all day prior, I gotta say I was pretty hyped to be catching the Jesus of cool, Bryan Ferry, and fellow original Roxy Music members, Andy Mackay, Phil Manzanera & Paul Thompson live in the flesh some three decades after they ruled as glam kings of the 70s.
The ho-hum Americana style schmaltz of the opening act kicked off the night with a sound that landed uncomfortably between Michelle Shocked & Nikki Webster.
Two songs in and you’ve heard the whole repertoire.
Way too formula like, despite being pretty cool in the band stakes.
Before a sea of tight-fitting leather jackets, still covered in the dust of the 70s, Roxy Music unveil a 9-piece entourage backed by a wicked, larger than life retro slide show.
Ferry sits off to the side on piano, leather from head to toe, lasers piercing into the void.
And as soon as he opens his mouth, you know that classic style, and that amazing voice have not waned one iota.
Haunting sax…exquisite guitars…bleeding violin…dripping moods that stretch out though the darkness and suck you straight in.
So pure, so full, so fucking awesome.
No three minute throwaways here, but more your perfectly constructed, epic weaves that build into one big visual and aural moodscape after another.
Seductive greys and reds that explode in frenzies of passion…there’s a band playing on the radio…smooth and sexy in every way.
Out come the go-go girls in leather minis…true Roxy style.
Large guitar solos are the order of the night, and Manzenera laps up the limelight.
They all seem to be having a ball, and when it gets into the latter part of the set, all the old faves come peeling off beautifully, like a fully blown Roxy hit parade.
Black jacket, white jacket, silver jacket, Ferry looks and sounds every bit the true croon-rock God that he always was.
Mackay’s soaring sax is second to none.
One moment all smokey, slinked and slow, the next a total rockout.
Avalon’s trickling, sax-pilfered sheer beauty, Jealous Guy…the song he made his own, with its seething awe and hypnotic wash…complete with note-perfect whistle, just brings the house down.
They all take a bow, then jump into the total camp quirkery of Virginia Plain…squelched, rocked, perfect!
A short walkout, and its encore time.
Love Is The Drug’s ultra cool slickness is as tight and incisive as it was 20 years ago…so pristine, you’d swear it was taped, but no, this is the real thing in all its latter day glory.
Do The Strand’s pop topped glam stomp comes complete with can-can girls and all the cabaret-cool it deserves.
One by one they say g’bye and stroll off…the man himself humbly first…the rest following in equal bursts of glory.
And then it’s all over! All in all, one wickedly cool night of sheer, suave, slick rock and roll of the finest, smoothest and undeniably, most special of ilks.
A rare occasion indeed. Ageless!
Mark Fraser - redbackrock.com
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