Kings Of The Wild Frontier

There's a new star in the charts tonight, and throughout the land there is much rejoicing (especially in some of the more fashionable areas of London). One of punks more pathetic jokes, Adam Ant, forsakes his past of seedy night clubs. Nazi flirtations and elmondo garbage for the sake of rocks' favourite punchline "I told you so!" Packing all that crap in an old trunk Adam decided to get down to the serious business of being a popstar. About time! Said Adam (53) of his skin tight leather trouser: "They looked pretty neat, but they were a bitch to get on in the morning."

The Ants’ music is a marvellously confused hybrid, wherein glam rears its dubious head once more, punk mixes it with pop, Marc Bolan gets exhumed to a zombie dance to burundi rhythms from African shores, Clint Eastwood is discovered in bed with Steve Harley, (red) Indian changes get hung round hook happy top-ten choruses, today's teeny-boppers lie down with history, the cowboys lie down with the Indians and the wolf lies down with the lamb (but nobody gets much sleep). Adam answers the scrawl of the wild with some hoary old rules in inspired new formats, the chunky rhythms announcing the invasion of giant killer ants from outer Chelsea: pretty faces, colourful clothes, yowling vocals, massive harmonies, clipping guitar, neat beat, silly songs. If you don't make this umber one you're too old and your hair's too well behaved. As Groucho Marx once said: "A child of five would understand this. Send somebody to fetch a child of five!"

Oh you pretty things, don't you know your mother and father would never approve. But Adam's a harmless old sod for all that. If you wish to ignore him feel free to do so, leave him to his ants and antics and be on your way. He'd never notice, he's so far too busy trying to sort out his multi-tracked mixed-up-shook-up fantasy existence. You could never take Adam seriously, he has a nice way with the words, but once he's got them he doesn't know what to do with them: he carries round large bags of marvellous analogies, all dressed up with nowhere to go.

He constantly contradicts himself and can't make up his mind whether he wants to be Davy Crockett or Geronimo, but he settles for the part of Long John Silver and his merry band of punky buccaneers, armed to the teeth with knives and couplets, swishing, swashing, generally having a riot and taking on Malcolm McLaren at the game they concocted between them: sun, sea and piracy (add sex and ants and you've almost got the picture). All he really wants to be if a big, big star, a phenomenon: fresh, new and exciting (now that's not too much to ask, is it?)

In lieu of revolution we'll settle for a big do. And hey, Adam, don't start the party without us!