Tonight’s proceedings had a workingman’s club vaudeville feel, being cheerfully immune to taste, sense or criticism. Assuming compere duties, bug-eyed vibemeister-in-chief Bez (or is it John Bishop?) delivers a rambling incoherent mumble of a drunken best man’s wedding speech welcoming his comrades to the stage. Tone set. The slow seductive impish riff and acid slide of ‘Loose Fit’ opens the back catalogue. Rowetta swings whips, Shaun shakes hips and Bez sinks ships.
The frizz of ‘Kinky Afro’ is a shambolic bleary-eyed mess that just about manages to hold itself upright. Ryder is unsure and awkward, mumbling behind shades, reading lyrics from a teleprompter. ‘God’s Cop’ is sleazy and laboured, caught in a slow-motion loop. Most of the set is, naturally, drawn from Pills N Thrills And Bellyaches and, despite the poor sound and at times sloppy delivery, serves as a reminder of what a great album it still is. ‘Hallelujah’ revels in its mixture of dance, raucous indie rock, gospel gobbiness and football yobbery.
The importance of Rowetta as the glue, focal point and vocals holding it all together is evident throughout. Her uh’s, ooh’s and ah’s slap ‘Parental Advisory’ stickers all over the tropical-soft-sand-beach-wander of ‘Bob’s Yer Uncle’. ‘Step On’ is all twisted melons and heh, heh, heys, as Bez falls flat on his arse – maraca-ed no doubt. The Leftfieldesque ’Wrote For Luck’ brings proceedings to an end. Pratfalls, Spills And Bellyflops, the Mondays continue to shrug and make the ramshackle an ‘art form’.