HOUSTON, WE HAVE A PROBLEM

WHITNEY HOUSTON (Point, Dublin)

BEFORE THE inevitable screams of “hatchet job” from the Whitney Barmy Army, may I point out that I’m not unsympathetic to the M.O.R. cause. Far from it – this is the man who rates Tony Bennett’s ‘I Left My Heart In San Francisco’ as one of the ten finest records ever made, would rather slap a Dollar album on the Dansette than The Smiths and blackmailed a BMG employee to get his hands on The Complete Barry Mannilow boxset.

Bearing this is mind, I’m sure you’ll appreciate it’s in a loving, caring way that I say the Whitney Houston live experience proves to be the worst case of showbiz excess it’s been my misfortune to endure since being dragged kicking and screaming as a boy to see Leslie Crowther in panto.

Making her grand entrance with the not altogether offensive ‘Love Will Save The Day’, Ms. Houston - wearing what, admittedly, is a very fetching line in Gary Glitter cast-offs – precedes to gush ‘God Bless You’ six times in a row, tells us how wunerful it is to be in Ireland and how Jesus Christ-willing we’re going to get ‘hot tonight’.

I’m not sure what passes for ‘hot’ these days in the USA but round this neck of the woods, it’s certainly not insipid ballads and arthritic dance tunes that reject humour, passion, excitement and soul for a globby veneer of Las Vegas schmaltz.

Trawling my memory now for high spots, there’s no denying that Whitney has great depth and range of voice, the male backing-singer was capable of producing a bass rumble that even Barry White couldn’t get down to and, er, the lights were nice.

In between admiring The Point’s paintwork, it struck me as rather sad that Bobby’s girl has succumbed to blandness so early in her career. Bland sells – the smiles on the touts’ faces outside bore testimony to that – but with her Gospel roots and earlier guise as a sort of black Madonna, there are other infinitely more adventurous avenues she could be exploring. Daft as it might sound, she’d probably make a cracking record with Primal Scream and if the Neville Brothers ever manage to coerce her into the studio, I’ll be the first to slap a tenner on the counter for the LP.

Back in the real world, though, Whitney Houston pauses to tearfully pray for peace in Northern Ireland, tells us we’re wunerful again and slips into another of those interminable ballads as I slip out to the pub down the road where Everton are giving Crystal Palace a 4 - 1 seeing-to on the telly. At least the evening ended on a high.

• Stuart Clark