Kim Wilde Live at Manchester Apollo

Inevitably, we were given the bad news first. Invariably: it came wrapped in a tatty package marked “Middle age prevails”. HANDLE WITH CARE! The package is held aloft with intense pride and glib arrogance. The merchandise sellers, the tour “management” team, the tour “security” team – even the bloody group and girl backing singers – are smugly satisfied to be a part of the package. You know what? IT STINKS! The whole (old) package is intended to protect and aid lovely young Kim, but the truth is: it’s damned well stifling her. Sucking all her vitality and bright ideas away with disdain: replacing them with typical middle-aged “professionalism”.
Starting at the start: the “band” bound on stage and plunge into a miserable sequence of shallow slush. Faceless bores who haven’t even bothered to look appealing, I’m despairing when: she’s here at last!! IT’S THE MILKY BAR KIM!
Kim’s pure, milky-white face blooms in the spotlight, while the craggy sour features of her band scowl and pose in tandem with a furtively ridiculous belief that they should be playing out the roles of “artists” suffering for their “music”.
We were the ones who suffered: KIm did as well. For more than 30 minutes she struggled to find herself. Looking round to the guitarist next to her for inspiration she must have wondered just what she was doing there.
I sense that Kim has a vision: that she’s just as concerned about producing vibrantly fresh music as you and I are in wanting to listen to it. It’s about time she did something about it.