MM 10th April 1999 Issue





CHRIS HELME
Improv Theatre, London
Breaking Point - First Maker Live Review



MOVE along now, nothing to hate here. Well, not yet anyway - not unless this stuff leaks out via "TFI Friday" and starts staining the airwaves trad-rock brown.

Let me give you the history. Chris Helme used to be the singer in John Squire's successful indie rock band, The Seahorses. Remember them? Perhaps not. Well, they perfected the art of being OK - quite good, even. And they also sold shitloads of records. Then halfway through making the second album they split, citing "musical differences", presumably meaning Chris wanted to see "Cats", while John was more of an "Oklahoma" man. After all, judging by tonight's exhibition, those fatal musical differences between Helme solo and Helme plus Squire don't exactly leap out and throttle you.

It's - yawn - not bad, I suppose. The new band, decently concealed behind dry ice, are "tight" - which is impressive, of course, because playing the guitar is quite difficult. But, in the end, it's all skill and no thrill. "Cold Comfort" is low-grade Oasis, without ham's ability to make almost any old tosh sound good. "Holding Heaven" is a mellow, Cast- go-psychedelic kind of love song, while if you play "Thanks" backwards you'll hear Weller, Weller, über Alles, repeated ad nauseam.

There are a few bonuses. A sense of humour rescues Helme's Jim Morrison-lite rock star persona, supplying him with good lines like: "What's that you say? You wished I was gay?" from "Thanks". And the plaintive guitar opening "Ditty" briefly whisks us out of Weller World, while a run-through The Seahorses fave "Blinded By The Sun" was never entirely going to be a chore.

But, ultimately, this isn't a gig so much as a farmyard auction, More than half the audience are record company execs, weighing the tunes in their fat palms, squeezing gently, testing for Evans appeal and Moyles worthiness. The water is being tested, markets are being assessed and, between songs, the low scribble of ad hoc pie charts being scrawled onto beer mats is faintly audible. To hate this music is to join the corporate appraisal. Nah, move along now, nothing to see here...





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