Pet Shop Boys

In this part of the story, the Pet Shop Boys go suddenly, disturbingly rock.

But before this, we get the NME’s much lauded A.R.E. Weapons, a band hopelessly in love with 1987 beatboxes, Pop Will Eat Itself before they got good, guitar riffola, berets, and unfortunately free of the ravages of talent. They are the new Shite. The lyrics are dumb macho posturing (that I can make out), the melodies are non existent, and the only originality they have are those of the people they have ripped off. They are hopelessly out of time, out of date, and out of ideas. I’ve quit better bands than that lot.

Britain’s most consistent - and successful - duo, who’ve clocked up about 35 hit singles in the past fifteen years have decided not to reverse the trend of declining sales by continuing further into the leftfield. Still, when you make about a million a year in royalties without even having to leave the house, I suppose artistic self-indulgence is understandable, if not exactly forgivable.

In some respects, they are one of Britain’s better-loved institutions. Having never gone through rock-star tantrums or tune-free moments of going-up-their-own-arse, the Pet Shop Boys managed to achieve declining sales largely through a huge shift in the market demographic whilst constantly evolving and trying new ideas and approaches. No radical U2 type career reinventions here. The two just grew apart.

Not until now. Freed of the rafts of technology, the Pet Shop Boys mange to bring out a) an Oasis-style rock guitarist, b) butch female bassist, and c) latino tinged percussionist in their most conventional ever show. To all intents and purposes, this is the Pet Shop Boys doing Rock. No flash theatrics, no backing vocalists, and oddly, none of the ironic bombast or humour that gives their work colour.

Just Neil Tennant with an acoustic guitar, Chris Lowe - looking oddly, suddenly, very very old sat down on a little chair and a conventional rock band backing. And a backdrop that resembles nothing so much as a big set of blinds, like an old Soft Cell LP cover. Presumably it is geared towards focusing the audience on the music, and unfortunately it suffers as a result.

The music? Chunky renditions of older numbers such as “Disco Potential“, an unrecognisable “Love Comes Quickly”, and “Being Boring”, see previously literate, subtle works flattened out and shrunk-to-fit a blueprint of generic, bland pop-rock, and near enough ignoring a back catalogue that would put the Beatles to shame. The only good thing about it is the live premiere of “A Red Letter Day”, an update of the weak “New York City Boy” so that it’s actually almost good, and a ballad version of “Go West” that turns into a lament comparable with “Moonriver” in its plaintive sadness.

The newer songs are also somewhat lacking in the spark and originality that gave the Pet Shop Boys their style. “Home And Dry” - the lead single for the new album - is so weak that previous it would’ve probably been relegated to B-Side status, whereas the other new stuff with the exception of the promising “Birthday Boy” and the wonderful, bitter Beatles pastiche “I Get Along Without You Very Well”, is instantly forgettable. The Pet Shop Boys have now gone Down The Dumper.

It’s a good idea, but a flawed execution. Whilst there is certainly a novelty in seeing them at a venue of this size, it manages to undo all the work of their career reviving Glastonbury performance, and then some.

Photos courtesy of Emma Porter.