I’ll put this as simply and succinctly as possible- I don’t like arenas. Or stadiums. Never have, never will. For me, anything larger than Hammersmith Odeon, Leicester DeMontfort or Birmingham Symphony Hall is a cold, impersonal, overpriced nightmare.
However, I will TOLERATE them for certain bands, and certain special occasions. And a night in the company of two of the last surviving legends of Motown, supported by one of the finest New York disco acts of the late 70s and early 80s, is one of them. Plus, it has to be said that with the retractable seats placed at just the right angle from the stage [as is one of the few relative benefits of such a venue] the more ‘intimate atmosphere’ required to properly evoke the beauty of soul music is perfectly achieved, even in what is essentially a giant hangar.
Openers Odyssey, led by remaining original member [and deliberately bad dancer] Steven Coliazo and strangely splitting their base of operations these days between The Big Apple and Basingstoke [yes, you read that right, BASINGSTOKE] undoubtedly have the toughest call of all: they’re on at 7 30 prompt, which not only inevitably means that what with all the rail nightmares pervading the UK at the moment, I miss the first song [I’m guessing it was Native New Yorker] but also dictates that as they move through their set, a lot of people are still drifting in under [presumably] similar circumstances.
However, for all that, they make the most of their allotted 30 minutes: their backing group are as tight as the proverbial gnat’s rectum, and despite a tendency on behalf of both Kayjay Sutherland and Michelle John to slide slightly into that irksomely unsubtle ‘let’s see how many notes I can fit into a line’ oversinging style so beloved of post-1980s soul vocalists [particularly on Inside Out] they still manage to deliver a rendition of If You’re Lookin For A Way Out capable of simultaneously chilling spines and melting hearts, and a Use It Up And Wear It Out that actually expands on the hinted Latino flavouring of the original. Would I watch them play a full set in a small club? Possibly, though I’d have to wear a white suit before zippin’ up my boots.
If Odyssey are a band, or to use the correct vernacular a funk outfit, then The Temptations are both an act and a star attraction: resplendent in red glitter costumery with full orchestra, band AND overture, they sure know how to make an entrance. Come on, any band who opens their set with a song entitled Get Ready must know exactly what side their bread’s buttered: ironically, the audience seem more than ready already, but even so, there’s no better way to commence an hour-long set of hit-after-hit Gordytastic classics, with the likes of Ain’t Too Proud To Beg, Treat Her Like A Lady and Papa Was A Rollin Stone tumbling out in rapid-fire succession, tried and tested club dancers to a man. However, it’s Midland Mania’s personal favourite Ball Of Confusion [an early slice of psychedoomedelic apocalypse soul that’s inspired a fair few interesting covers over the years] that shines brightest; its dark undercarriage is further bolstered by the presence of a former Funk Brother on keyboards, and its ever-pertinent Whitfield-Strong lyric reminding you precisely why this group were always so highly regarded.
Indeed, it’s not until you actually watch them that you realise just how many of the best known American songs of the last 60 years are attributable to the quintet, their regular writing team and their former mentor Smokey Robinson: as an Englishman, I grew up knowing I Wish It Would Rain from Steve Harley and Just My Imagination from the Rolling Stones, but they’re Temps classics first and foremost, and inserted mid-set, their yearning melancholy makes a perfect break from all the jivin’, groovin’, twirlin’ and arm-rollin they still pull off so perfectly. Of course, these days, only baritone Otis Williams – or ‘Oke’, as Smokey calls him – remains from the original incarnation that first packed its respective bags in ’61 and split from Texarkana, TX and [ironically] Birmingham, AL, bound for Detroit in search of fame and fortune. However, Ron Tyson, who replaced Eddie Kendricks in 1983, has held falsetto position for an almost continuous 40 years now, and as such, deserves almost equal respect; the mutual admiration the pair clearly bear for one another means both get to sit together to address the audience halfway through while the other three stand, at 80 and 73 respectively, they’ve more than earned it.
It’s a touching moment, and one which almost makes you want to hug them like your favourite uncles: yet far from any tone of solemnity, the spoken interlude, which talks of the group’s proud history and also prefaces the Robinson-penned newie Is It Gonna Be Yes Or No [definitely a yes from me, as it’s fucking superb] begins in endearingly humorous style, with the “can I get a yeah from the fellas out there!!”s of the relatively-youthful-at-60 Terry Weeks [tenor since 1997] swiftly replaced by the “can I get a no no no from one old feller up here”s of Williams, joke interruptions from their pratfalling pianist/director and a mock-medical-bedside setup between the two of them and Tyson. If anything, it’s moments like this, when you realise your long-admired Motown heroes are just as daft as you, that make attending concerts a worthwhile – if maybe less than lucrative – pastime: even if they do fuck up slightly by not playing The Way You Do The Things You Do or Cloud Nine, their likeable quirkiness [particularly in the case of new bass vocalist Jawain Jackson] more than counters it, and they still end their suitably declamatory ‘national anthem’ My Girl, having not dropped a single bum note all night.
Yes, it’s meticulously rehearsed, yes it’s slick-as-fuck with no dirt under the fingernails, and yes it’s more like showbiz than pop music, but the fact of the matter is, they always were: they had their own Christmas TV special in 1969 for Chrissakes, with comedians, guest vocalists and Broadway standards effectively making them the black Monkees for one whole hour, so it’s not too far of a leap from there to this. And at least they’re still touring and recording new music for as long as Williams and Tyson are still around: one never knows, it may even last beyond that, and even though I may not regularly watch them, I’ll always listen to them. Consider my fandom fully renewed.
All of which makes one wonder precisely how the Four Tops plan to follow them: despite being a legend of equal stature [actually, if we’re precise, their 1953 formation actually predates the launch of that label by about five years] and possessing possibly the oldest performing RnB musician in the world in the shape of Abdul ‘Duke’ Fakir [due to turn 87 on Boxing Day] they’re still not quite the theatrical showmen the Temps are. Well, 21st century recruits Alex Morris and Lawrence Payton Jr aren’t anyway, despite the latter being the son of an original Top. Nonetheless, they do have great strut, style and charisma: and as for the great Ronnie McNeir [whose introduction onstage is immediately greeted by a loud geshry of “I’VE GOT ALL YOUR SOLO ALBUMS” from some white twat in the centre rows, can’t possibly think who that could be] well, that’s a different matter altogether, duuuuude…
Seriously, since his promotion from ‘musical director’ to baritone vocalist following the retirement of Levi Stubbs in 1999, The Ronster’s been slowly gathering a reputation as one of the great pranksters of soul as we know it, and in 2022, he seems to have honed this to a fine craft: he may not take any leads, but his deliberately bizarre dance steps and gurnings provide at least a third of the entertainment, much like his treatment of other members [pulling out imaginary objects from behind Fakir’s ear, distracting Payton by telling him to ‘look up’ before mock-kicking him squarely in the bollocks during Wake Me When It’s Over, etc] From an admirer’s point of view, such tomfoolery [especially from such a mystery-drenched ‘cult artist’ whose own work is the preserve of crate-diggers, obscurantists and would-be-Keb Darges everywhere] is a joy to behold: yet as with the Temps, watching the Tops’ stagecraft is a blend of the touching and the rib-tickling per se, and all part of what makes being allowed to see it such a privilege.
Fakir, for instance, is under no illusions about his age: rather, he makes it quite clear that this is his last tour as a Top, and in doing so makes several self-deprecating references to his need to sit down after each yelp [something to which the other three also humorously allude by referring to him as ‘real sexy, Doook’] However, the fact of the matter is, he is old, he is frail [unlike Otis Williams, he visually has to be helped onstage at the start] and after this, the Tops will be without him.
No question, it’s happening: 68 years is one helluva time to be in any job, especially a stressful one like this, and the fact that he’s outlived everyone else is a fine testament to his tenacity and perseverance. Naturally, whether they will carry on [presumably not as the Three Tops, if only to avoid the awkward pronunciation of that name by their Irish fanbase] remains to be seen: however, should they choose to, there’s certainly no shortage of fine weaponry in their armoury, from Baby I Need Your Loving, Same Old Song to When She Was My Girl, to draw upon, and some fine glittering white material of some indistinct origin to sing it in [even if it does render them sodding well difficult to photograph]
On the downside, they elect to open with their 80s cheese hit [Loco In Acapulco, although I suppose that does at least get it out of the way] and miss an obvious trick by not doing Simple Game in honour of its composers, Brum’s very own Moody Blues, but on the upside, they play an astounding version of their best ever number [Bernadette] rework their more familiar rendition of the Left Banke’s Walk Away Renee into a haunting downtempo ballad, and are clearly in possession of a sympathetic arranger who knows his keys, thereby allowing them to medley the inevitable Reach Out into the equally well-known but far superior Standing In The Shadows Of Love. During the latter, they actually stand in shadow, much as the Temps had stood making rain gestures Pans People-stylee during I Wish It Would Rain: John Peel would have had a field day, but even he, the cynical old git, couldn’t fail to have been moved by I Can’t Help Myself, possibly the most joyous encore I’ve witnessed in years by anyone. Bugger me, even the backing group- including the baritone saxophonist, into whose horn Fakir repeatedly inserts his mike for effect – are boogieing.
Then, suddenly, everyone shuffles off, someone pushes a sound fader, the lights come up and it’s all over: as I said before, shows like this are a slick operation, and if they run one minute overtime the management probably risks being penalised for breach of contract. The Robin, The Musician or the Hairy Dog this most certainly ain’t. Which I suppose brings us back neatly to where I began: I really don’t like arenas, and I’ve had many a miserable experience in them. However, I adore the Temptations, love the Four Tops and am more than partial to Odyssey, and tonight, I entered, watched, listened and eventually left the Utilita/NIA/whatever you want to call it in a fine mood. I guess that for once, the bands not only played on, but won.
DARIUS DREWE
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