Heat Magazine Review by
Johhny Black
|
| Two thousand, five hundred males share one
silent prayer as swirling ultra-violet lights welcome The Corrs onstage. "Please
God," they're thinking, "let it fall off." Waif-witch Andrea Corr is up in front of them, nearer than ever before, skipping towards the mike in a diaphanous black slit skirt topped with a patch of purple silk, barely enough to fashion a smallish kite. It's sleeveless, backless, and held in place more by will power than the two tantalisingly slender strings across Andrea's back. The female half of the crowd seem equally transfixed, but their thoughts are presumably more diverse, ranging from envy to adoration. Then The Corrs kick off into When He's Not Around, and Celtic glamour engulfs the auditorium. For the next hour or so, Cardiff is Corrdiff - a suburb of Dundalk, County Louth. The crowd had been put into a receptive mood by supporting Dublin quintet Picture House who, to the ire and irk of Arena staff, had misappropriated a life-sized James Bond cut-out from the foyer as their non-playing sixth member.They delivered tuneful songs so instantly memorable that vocalist Dave Browne roused an audience who had never heard them before to a semblance of participation. Shades of Crowded House, Jimmy Web and The Kinks permeated the set and, by the time Browne asked "Did I mention our CD is on sale in the foyer?" he was rewarded with an approving roar. This night, however, belongs to The Corrs - three of the most bewitching colleens (and that bloke with the acoustic guitar) ever to tread the boards. Their hit singles came courtesy of canny dance remixes and pretty videos, and album sales followed as a consequence but, up there onstage, it's about being the family that plays together, and it's about being troupers. This is particularly true tonight, with all four gripped by flu, and their energy further sapped by a punishing tour schedule that has kept them continually on the road for moths. You wouldn't know it though, as Andrea waltzes wistfully across the stage, holding her penny whistle like some skinny boyfriend."Marry me," calls out some wag in the dark. "I most certainly will not," replies acoustic guitar bloke. Sharon Corr's fiddle playing is beautifully lyrical, if rarely exciting; Caroline's drumming is surprisingly powerful, varied and unflashy, and that acoustic guitar bloke, Jim Corr, deserves more attention than he gets. When he straps on an electric for What Can I Do, he chops out the distinctive chunky riffs rather well. When Sharon and Caroline take centre stage for No Frontiers, it's like hearing Karen Carpenter duet with herself, and when they add their harmonies to Andrea's the effect is powerfully emotional, particularly in Only When I Sleep, a soaring melody purpose-built for arenas. When Cardiff gets up to dance during the instrumental Haste To The Wedding, security moves quickly to put posteriors back in place. Jim and Andrea, however, incite the great washed to get right up again, which they do for a decidedly rockin' Secret Life. Dreams and I Never Loved You Anyway finish the set with gusto, but they've saved something special for the encore. So Young's chugging rhythms pick up, the ooga-chooga baby from Ally McBeal emerges from the blackness above and behind them. On a giant video screen, the effect is impressive. There had been moments earlier when it was possible to wish The Corrs would cut loose and go a little crazy but, as a feelgood closer, this was perfect. Ahead of them are more vibe free barns to enliven - in Wembley, Edinburgh and Manchester to name but a few. If the Day Nurse lasts out, The Corrs'll be great. JOHNNY BLACK |
