Guardian.co.uk 16th October 2004



Ian Brown, Academy, Glasgow

*****

It's taken six long years of soloing stubbornness, but Ian Brown has finally bowed to the pressure. Having twigged that he'd be back to the gardening if he didn't quit the silliness and play some Stone Roses tracks, he has dusted off the back catalogue for the evening.

Brown has always been a ropey singer, but tonight he doesn't so much carry a tune as cast it off like so much excess baggage. If his cunning plan is to ruin every Roses track by howling like a tone-deaf mongrel, it works. Sally Cinnamon, Waterfall and She Bangs the Drums are all massacred by his terrible wailing, so it's a relief when the second half of the set comprises trippier (and, crucially, less vocal-laden) tracks from his four solo albums.

Brown is still the only pop star with such extraordinary bone structure that you'd recognise his skull if it was dug up by the Time Team. Previously a faithful devotee of the Mancunian all-weather anorak, tonight he steps out in a red leather jacket and too-big combats he keeps having to sort out like a girl with a thong stuck up her bum.

His behaviour is as baffling as ever. When not making alarming sex noises between songs, he stalks the stage like a constipated cowboy, performing a series of ridiculous mimes with the swagger of a man who believes he is performing Mr Ben-style transformations before our very eyes. Tonight, we get Brown the boxer, Brown the bodybuilder and the, ever classic, Brown on his bike. Another day at the office for a man who put the mad in "mad fer it".


Helen Pidd




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