Russell Howard - Bradford - November 2008

"I am NOT sitting there!"

When her boyfriend presented her with tickets for row D, she was probably a bit reticent; that's a bit close to the front for a comedy gig; definitely within range of the man on stage.

When she got there and discovered that St George's Hall didn't have a row A, B, or C, she freaked. Needless to say, the stewardess didn't take long to find another couple; more safely located; who were only too willing to swap.

The 40 or so student types between us (we're on row J and, yes, I had a seating plan when booking) and the action (they looked like they were on a class trip) grumbled.

It's just as well the rest of the seventy-seven THOUSAND people who have bought seats on this tour weren't all as troublesome.

Seventy seven thousand.

When I booked our tickets about six months ago, this was one of a dozen or so shows being advertised on Russell's MySpace. Now it's one of over 50 essentially sold-out gigs including one at the Wembley Arena.

I think it's fair to say that Russell's ship has come in this year.

We weren't anticipating a warm-up act and, in fairness, Steve Hall realised that. His poundshop David Baddiel routine, basically a series of amusing situations featuring his dad, went down well enough, though. It wasn't until afterwards that I discovered that he's one of the contributors to the sometimes-hysterical We Are Klang, so I'm putting this down as a disappointment.

Not so the main man.

Russell bounded onstage just like he does when he knows he's got a winning line for the performance area on Mock the Week. Then he talked. And he talked and he talked and he talked. And we laughed and we laughed and we laughed and the world was, for an hour and a half, a much, much better place.

The highlights were, of course, the unscripted bits; the impromptu debate between members of the audience about the relative merits of pies and pasties with Russell playing Jeremy Paxman will live long in the memory.



But not as long as the shoe incident. He probably thought it a bit odd when someone asked if he'd sign his shoe, but Russell continued with his performance and had probably forgotten all about it when, 15 or so minutes later, a Nike Air Jordan flew past his head and crashed into the wings.

If the momentary look of terror on his face as his brain raced to process what had just happened was worth the entrance, his vengeance was priceless.

Having asked the young man to come down from the balcony, Russell brought support act Steve back onstage and invited him to indulge in some, shall we say intimate behaviour with the trainer.

Needless to say, the would-be Iraqi journalist(*) wasn't too keen on recovering his footwear and it's probably just as well because Steve suffered what the tabloids call a wardrobe malfunction on removing said shoe from his underpants.

Just in case there had been any doubt about his religion.

I sincerely hope that guy didn't have athletes' foot.

Amazing show; narrowly pipping Frankie and Jimmy to join Andy Parsons as my joint favourite comedy show of the year. Actually, no; give Russell the title exclusively just on account of the lack of recycled material.

We even managed to get out of the carpark before midnight.

(*) George Bush had shoes thrown at him by an Iraqi journalist during his "farewell tour" of the middle east just a couple of weeks after this gig; http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/middle_east/7783325.stm

Vampires Rock - Blackpool - November 2008

In The Court of the Crimson Queen



My clubbing days were over before rave took off. Blimey, does that age me or what? We used to get hi-energi and a bit of electronica; it wasn't total shite, but, in honesty, I never really "got" it.

Club Live and Let Die is, of course, not your run-of-the-mill two-Bacardi-Breezers-and-a-quickie-in-the-carpark meatmarket but our second visit in just twelve months is, you've probably guessed, the girls' idea.

Tracie and Dann are at the restaurant before us (again!) and there's a brief panic about parking penalties before we dine but the highlight of the preliminaries is the slightly tipsy bloke who's bought the object of his desire three presents; a woolly hat, a stick of rock and a pair of furry handcuffs.

"Are you a Goth?" he asks Linda.

To which I suppose the answer is, "Tonight, Matthew, yes. Yes I am."

This year's Vampires Rock is different enough to last year's to merit a fresh write-up, but I want to compare and contrast so you'll have to piece it together for yourself.

The three lead roles are still filled by Steve Steinman (von Rockula), Emiley Clark (Pandora) and Mike Taylor (Stringfellow) but the cast is now augmented by Toyah Wilcox as the Devil Queen.

What has the addition of an extra character done to the narrative? Buggered it up completely, that's what. The "old" story was unimaginative and simple, but at least it flowed; with the addition of a wife on the sidelines, the Baron's seduction of poor Pandora becomes needlessly complicated.

The song introductions are clunky; each title being the "punchline" to a pretty obvious build-up. The set list has been juggled just enough to freshen the show (a decent Hell's Bells replacing If You Want Blood; Stringfellow's Queen numbers, the highlight of the show; Steinman and Toyah making a decent fist of the otherwise utterly execrable Changes; the bizarre inclusion of People Are Strange which just doesn't fit; a couple of songs which, to my shame, I didn't know - maybe they were Toyah songs because It's A Mystery and Thunder in the Mountains were conspicuous by their absence).

Ah, Toyah. She's aged well, has that one. That'll be the clean living, godly lifestyle she's been following for the last 20-odd years, I suppose. Looking good and hitting all the right notes - especially on Sweet Child o'Mine which suited her voice perfectly. She also cracked an "X-Factor reject" joke which would have been soooo much funnier if she'd made it "Stars In Their Eyes".

The sound was poor, it has to be said; the vocals were turned up way too high which caused distortion (which in turn accentuated the diction problems of both Steinman and Clark). It was particularly noticeable on last year's highlight, Total Eclipse of the Heart which was drunken karaoke standard this time around.

The band was solid; Jordan Bracewell filled the rather large boots of Eddie Ojeda but seemed to be on a short lead; not allowed to rock out too much so whether he's a Fripp (or a Rosingana, for that matter) we know not.

The everyone-on-your-feet-and-sing-along encore showed La Wilcox's influence again with the inclusion of God Gave Rock'n'Roll to You. This was introduced by way of a lengthy diatribe by Steinman telling off his audience for cheering the show's demonic references.

You need to keep your guest star sweet, Steve; we don't... At the altar of rock and roll we kneel.

Oh, and Blackpool had shut for the season when we got out. Two thousand rockers looking for a pint or five and they shut the Winter Gardens bars? What genius is in charge there?

David Cassidy - SECC - November 2008

"Over'rer, hen, in the armadillo"
"How dae you know wherr we waaant tae be?"
"Audience profilin' doll, audience profilin'."

Two women of a certain age are redirected away from the hall where Paul Weller is to play to a collection of soul boys and grown-up mods. We only know it's the Modfather because the audience-profiler-come-bouncer didn't stop us and we'd reached the merchandising stalls before realising we were at the wrong gig. This has me thinking that my new Henry Winkler-style satin bomber jacket isn’t as cutting-edge as I’d imagined.

I watched them build the SECC. It was a big, red box the last time I saw it, but that's changed. Sometime between me leaving home and now, they painted it grey and Norman Foster (see the account of our visit to Wembley) built the armadillo or "Clyde Auditorium" to give it its official title. This is my first time in it. It's rather nice; solid, in a corporate conference kind of way; I can see John Harvey Jones, Richard Branson or Alan Sugar addressing massed ranks of blokes in suits (actually, scratch JHJ, what with him being dead and all).

Surprisingly, it doesn't seem to be a sell-out; the credit crunch having an effect on sales, perhaps? With the falling pound, tours by American artists will only become more expensive (if they happen at all); I wonder how many will regret missing this one in years to come?

Those who are here have come from far and wide; there's an Italian girl beside us who has friends scattered throughout the hall in odd seats. Why they didn't get seats together, we'll never know.

The lights go down and Glasgow demonstrates that the Apollo spirit never died. Seats are abandoned and if half of the audience isn't crushed against the stage, reaching for their hero, then it isn't far short. The Apollo bouncers used to drag out a token fan or two for a beating, but they were only dealing with punks, rockers or mods; not menopausal women. No-one even thinks of trying to stop them.

"It's unbelievable" are David Cassidy's first spoken words a couple of songs into the set. The crowd screams as they are acknowledged, but Cassidy goes on, "unbelievable how quickly a guitar can go out of tune in my hands!"

A laugh and the bond between stage and floor is made. I've said it before and tonight merely confirms it; Cassidy, former teen idol, is the consummate showman. At no time is it better illustrated than when he launches into his obligatory Lennon/McCartney number. This time, it's You've Got to Hide Your Love Away which David makes a singalong. Not, as you'd expect, with roof-raising "Hey"s, though; tonight, conducted by the puppetmaster in the spotlight, Glasgow whispers the Beatles song in perfect harmony.

The quiet theme is continued by a somewhat unlikely cover; an only-slightly-lighter-than-Deep-Purple's arrangement of Hush. Arrangements are a bit of a theme, actually - we get "Dance Party" versions of two staples; I'll Meet You Halfway is OK, but Cherish doesn't need funking up.

David swaps places with his drummer and she delivers a fairly decent rendition of Brass In Pocket, but the night is really all about what the fans want to hear, as determined by an online vote.

Some Kind Of A Summer tops the poll (in no small part thanks to my own vote, I like to think) and the only curve ball is Mae which David plays acoustically, unaccompanied, authentically struggling with the chord changes since he hasn't played it in anger in years.

The lights go up, the amps go off and I get my wife back; back from her trip down memory lane; she's spent the last two hours, as she always does in the presence of her hero, 35 years ago. I'm pleased to say that, since tomorrow is our sixth anniversary, she never looks too disappointed when the 21st century reclaims her.

Frankie Boyle - Bradford - November 2008

AC/DC. Whitesnake. Iron Maiden.

Those are three tour t-shirts I once owned which, alongside the mighty Glasgow Apollo, featured impossibly exotic venues like Leicester's De Montford Hall, The Hammersmith Odeon, the Royal Concert Hall at Nottingham and tonight's auditorium; St George's Hall, Bradford.

Blimey.

When I were a lad, I thought the Appalling (as it was known locally) was what concert halls were like. In reality, it was a 1920s cinema (the biggest in the country - it sat four thousand customers) converted for concert use, but the Glasgow audience earned it the reputation of the greatest gig in the world - AC/DC, Rush, Quo, Gary Moore all chose it to record their live albums.

Oh lordy (or, indeed, Lordi); what would we have done in a place like St George's Hall? What must it have been like to see Maiden in their 80s prime at a wonderful, compact, standing venue?

I never thought I'd say it, but I'm a bit jealous.

Someone else who must've visited the Apollo once or twice is following in the footsteps of Rock's elite tonight and, just as they probably did for the World Piece Tour, the "Sold Out" signs are on the doors as we approach the 150-year-old venue. At the Apollo, he'd have been awarded a "Sold Right Out" golden statuette; I suspect Frankie Boyle, unlike Johnny Cash who famously left his in the dressing room bin, would have treasured such a trophy.

Warm-up act Martin Bigpig is a revelation; a big, loud, bearded bloke from Norn Iron who reminds me of Billy Connolly in his younger days - a very enthusiastic, very offensive, very funny guy who sets the bar (and the cursemeter) at just the right height for the headliner. His handling of the would-be gatecrasher and the ineffectual bouncer was absolutely fantastic.

Regular readers will know that I've been lucky enough to catch several of my favourite comedians over the last couple of years. Tonight is the first time, though, that I've actually been nervous to the point of fear before a show. Frankie gets away with murder on Mock The Week; just what is he going to be like without censorship?

We soon find out as Shannon Matthews and the sainted Madeleine (or rather, the two girls' families) become the focus of prolonged, uncomfortable but, yes, hilarious attacks.

The "C" word is bandied about with such abandon that it loses its shock value but it is the material between the deliberately offensive punctuation where Frankie demonstrates his talent as a wordsmith and raconteur.

Quite simply, the guy is one of the funniest ****s you'll ever see.



There's some familiar stuff from Mock The Week, but most of the material (maybe 75%?) is fresh (or at least unfamiliar - some of the "topical" subjects are starting to get a bit mouldy - the Josef Fritzl stuff, for example).

Audience participation is good though he didn't have much to work with. Complaints? An hour and a quarter is a bit short, no encore is a bit poor and that NCP carpark took forever (well, about 45 minutes) to get out of.

A good night.