Peel On Pop

[Nigel U]

'The music was dogmatic and humourless' 

John Peel was the Observer's pop critic in the late 80s. Here are some of his finest moments 

Sunday October 31, 2004
The Observer 

Wham's final concert at Wembley Stadium, published on 13 July 1986 
'They never wearied of the flirtations and the running about, and when Elton John appeared in an asinine clown's outfit - does he do these things to mask some insecurity? - they correctly perceived that this was an honour for him, rather than Wham!' 

The Pretenders, 24 May 1987 

'The music was dogmatic and humourless and the consumers, still standing but almost motionless, amused themselves by punching balloons about in a thoughtful manner, while otherwise behaving as though attending a lecture on the inland waterways of Belgium.' 

Madonna, 23 August 1987 '

"Two-dimensional," suggested the Guardian' s man at the Madonna concert at Wembley. 'As good as that?' I muttered to my wife. At 8.18 Madonna appeared, wearing the fortified liberty bodice that has thrilled millions worldwide. 'Thank you and hello, London,' she improvised. 'England,' she added helpfully. 'Are you going to make this a night to remember for me?' she asked. With four children at my side and a £64 hole in my bank balance, I murmured something to the effect that we were paying her to make this a night to remember for us. As Madonna, playing Sleeping Beauty, feigned sleep on stage, torpor was stealing over the audience.' 

Bob Dylan, 18 October 1987 

'Being an enigma at 20 is fun, being an enigma at 30 shows a lack of imagination, and being an enigma at Dylan's age is just plain daft_ From the moment the living legend took to the stage, it was evident that here was business he wanted accomplished with the minimum of effort.' 

Echo & the Bunnymen, 10 January 1988 
Ian McCulloch of Echo & the Bunnymen would, I think, have come unplaced in an Ian McCulloch look-alike competition at the NEC Arena last Thursday. As a man who strove to look like Duane Eddy until I realised that only remedial surgery would make me resemble the man with the twanging guitar, I am not about to scoff at anyone who yearns to look like his or her hero or heroine, but the Ian McCullochs were pretty thick on the ground. You will not, unless you search a well-stocked broom cupboard, spot many Will Sergeant look-alikes, but guitarist Will was, reluctant though I am to single out individuals after a first-class team performance, my Man of the Match. 

Shirley Bassey, 29 May 1988 

Having assured us of her intention to take us on a trip to Memory Lane, Shirley expressed the wish that our favourite song would be among those she performed, stirring in my breast the lunatic hope that she would tackle 'Teenage Kicks'.  Emotions here are painted in primary colours, five-litre cans of reds and blues flung heartily at the canvas. Nothing, but nothing, is understated. With arms outstretched and other movement limited to throwing back the head or a self-deprecating wiggle of the hips, the Welsh thrush radiates a preposterous intimacy, scampering through a routine with which everyone seems totally familiar and at ease. To have attempted anything other than surrender would have been churlish. 

Dire Straits, 12 June 1988 

Sometimes the music became so lush that I felt as though I was being force-fed Swiss roll. Who could blame Knopfler if he wants to escape from this and from the uncritical audience the band has won for itself? 'Nice to be back with you,' he said to it, having delivered up a song which I rather cared for, which dealt, in part, with microwave ovens. This concert, he went on, was to get 'the band in gear' for the Mandela-up at Wembley. What did he really think, I wondered, about an event which, hijacked by the marketing thugs, could not conceivably win Nelson Mandela a single day of freedom or hasten the end of apartheid or threaten British interests in South Africa? 

Wet, Wet, Wet, 26 June 1988 

The toilets at the reknitted Alexandra Palace have been much improved since I was last there, which, if memory serves, was for the 24-Hour Technicolour Dream in 1967, when I was more worried about missing Pink Floyd (I did) and seeing Brian Jones apparently just walking about (I didn't). The new urinals are far enough apart for eccentricities of technique to go unmarked by one's fellow performers, a consideration that almost made up for the 22-minute uphill trudge from the nearest parking space, in the company of some of the extrovert members of the 18-30 holiday scene, noisy lads reeking of lager, giggling lasses awash with parfum.