January 6, 1999

Cardiff International Arena

Is this millennial weirdness? A sad indictment of moribund '90s pop? Or a jokey rock'n'roll pantomime filling the void left by [a]Gary Glitter[/a]?

Excuse me, but what the arse is going on here? Just why are a flock of early-'80s bands filling arenas at the end of 1998? Is this millennial weirdness? A sad indictment of moribund '90s pop? Or a jokey rock'n'roll pantomime filling the void left by Gary Glitter?

Duran Duran downplay the nostalgia angle. Ostensibly the least cabaret of the current retro revivalists, these old poseurs never really split up. They even play, gulp, new material. But with just two original members, charisma-free Simon Le Bon and original romo Nick Rhodes, the Durannies sound very tired indeed, cut-price playboys churning out anodyne white-bread anthems like 'Save A Prayer' and 'Rio'. Look, we didn't expect Radiohead, but there is nothing here at all: no funk, no passion, no humour, no sex, no fucking point. This is pure Pot Noodle pop, devoid of nourishment and instantly forgettable.

Thankfully, the next night at the same venue, three more '80s survivors muster twice the audience, five times the atmosphere and 50 times the star quality of the Durans. ABC's Martin Fry is a revelation, a soulman supreme belting out pristine Vegas glitterpop and uptown house in his electric blue lounge suit. An ageless performer - he always looked 40 - Fry is the missing link between Bryan Ferry and Jarvis Cocker, arty northern wit married to brittle melancholy. For the inevitable encore of 'The Look Of Love', he returns dipped in sparkly gold lami, a self-ironising pop genius on top form.

Fellow Sheffielders The Human League cut no corners for showbiz accessibility, opening with stark Kraftwerk homages and disembodied offstage vocals. Phil Oakey, Susanne Sulley and Jo Catherall then appear in all-white robes and shades, chanting 'The Sound Of The Crowd' like a Vic Reeves spoof. As this overview of their career progresses, however, they assume more orthodox garb for evergreen hits like the swooning 'Mirror Man', the soaring 'Together In Electric Dreams' and the heart-tugging 'Don't You Want Me'. It is even curiously comforting that, nearly 20 years on, the Rita, Sue And Bob Too of electro-pop still can't sing for toffee. Top marks.

Boy George needs no lessons in either singing or showmanship. Dolled up like a cross between Liz Taylor's Cleopatra and a Venusian drag queen, his spunky banter and warm reggae-lite lilt still provide great value for money. Culture Club's hits are mostly lightweight MOR, but the best have been fleshed out with soul or gospel arrangements, and 'Victims' remains a mighty sulk-anthem par excellence.

Crucially, all three of these bands still connect with social currents greater than their music: art and soul, punk and electronica, sex and superstardom. Le Bon's old troupers should give up the slog, but the rest are advised to stick around after the pantomime season. We may need their old-skool glamour more than we realise.