"... As the bruised, purple-smoke intro of 'She' flash-bombs into a juddering, floorboard-rippling versh of 'Trash', it's easy to see how a man with a cupboardful of overdue library books can melt hearts like ice cubes in a urinal. Brett Anderson is, quite simply, a star. A bright, shiny, pointy star covered in pink glitter, swaying at the top of the tallest pine, swinging his mike like a loose-hipped Roger Daltrey without the curls.

And with Brett speeding faster than a runaway train, the whole black satin hang-glider can't help but lift off the stage and soar into the balcony. Wee Richard has been seized by the spir-ay-ay-ate of Billy Duffy, windmilling his pipe-cleaner arms across a ridiculously over-sized guitar, Bee Gees escapee Mat swings his bass like a lipstick extra from a Robert Palmer video, while Neil, realising that he is just too good-looking to live, explodes all over his keyboards.

They have transcended their halls-of-residence bedroom poster status and shot into another orbit where they write the rules in smoking letters across the sky. Suede have finally earned that 'Best Band On The Face Of The Planet And Quite A Few Of The Nearer Stars Too' subtitle by doing everything better than everyone else. They rock like a mouthful of hot gravel on 'Filmstar' and 'Animal Nitrate', they pose like Dietrich on 'Losing Myself' and live newie 'Sound Of The Streets', and they squeeze saltwater from the Elephant Stone scallies with the torchsong-tastic 'Wild Ones' and 'Saturday Night'.

Once Suede have torn the prison-tattooed tears from the swaying crowd with their spotlit, Liza Minelli moments, they make sure they stamp them into the stage carpet with the Donner und Blitzen 'Beautiful Ones' and 'So Young'.

Brett and co could break a million glass hearts with the glistening pearls of 'By The Sea' or 'Heroine', but they so love loud guitars playing lovely tunes they can't stand still long enough to turn into Soft Cell. Besides, Brett hasn't the stomach to be Mark Almond; for all his poncery, Brett is a brawler, taunting the crowd from the lip of the stage on skintight stilts, flapping his maracas and purring like a tiger yearning to taste the charabanc-trippers beyond the pit."

John Perry

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