“This is another new song,” Tim Booth simpers. “Fuck off!” replies the Configuration & Logistics Manager stood next to NME. James’ bed used to be on fire with passionate love, now we reckon they only get it in their nightdress. The heckles of the fortysomethings packing the Academy turn to pleads for time travel, distilled nostalgia to replenish their own fading youth, not a mid-section crammed with lazy cosmic balladry. Still, this won’t be the most car-crash cash-in tour of the year. Boothy is still whippet-thin, still dances like a trout attempting semaphore, and when the band bow out with ‘Sit Down’, it resounds like the ‘Hey Jude’ of the baggy era.
Gavin Haynes
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