When is a gig not a gig? Aside from the bleeding obvious, perhaps when a get-together verges perilously close to overly-choreographed PA rather than an organic celebration of an artist’s output. Because there are elements of this spasmodically excellent shindig that feel just… a little… iffy.
Sledge are here as part of a summer-long series of gigs that defy all laws of economics and promotion. Lord knows who’s funding them all as, marvellous though the Kelvingrove Bandstand is as a venue, quite how the numbers stack up for the sisters, Tom Jones, Van Morrison, De La Soul etc etc, is beyond me. That, of course, is of no real concern, but it’s a remarkable convergence of performers on this tiny west end amphitheatre. No doubt to the delight of the moaning bastards who griped about far lesser numbers descending on the park last summer.
However, marching in past the purple disco lights, thank the lord – more of which later – someone has put all this together. What an atmosphere. An entirely mixed crowd of frothing bunnies, old and new, ready for action. The air fair crackles and the anticipation is palpable. The weather may be a load of old crap, but it’s nowt a few trips to the bar doesn’t sort out. There’s a feverish atmosphere of joy, the sort of which you tend to get with outdoor carry-ons. The pre-gig publicity may have mistakenly suggested Kathy Sledge is going to be present – always seemed somewhat unlikely given the current state of acrimony within the family Sledge. One hopes it is a mistake anyway and not some cynical tomfoolery. No matter, the other three will do. It’s Sister fucking Sledge after all.
In a way, they do not disappoint. With a crowd this bouncy, it would be pretty hard for them to – even with the crappest MC in history introducing them. “Let me hear the crowd to the left! Let me hear you guys on the right!”. Why do they bother? Him sidestepped however we rip into a selection that covers pretty much all you want them to, and more. The problems begin when a number of tunes are condensed together. Ten-minute montages with snatches of classics, including ‘All American Girls’, in exactly the way you may expect from a personal appearance or showcase somewhere. It’s disappointing not to allow what are massive, massive tracks to breathe in their entirety.
If the complaint is simply that one doesn’t hear enough, well, it’s still a complaint. The crowd lap it all up but since the event is effectively an all-dayer, there seems little good reason to squash things together like this.
Grumble number two is relatively frivolous. Some suspiciously talented dancers apparently plucked from the crowd to join the sparkling sisters are just a touch too coordinated. They certainly pick up the moves quickly if they actually are randomers. As does the lassie in the front row handed a microphone to join in on a solo at one point. A quite remarkable soul voice for someone allegedly just having a mic shoved in her face. The expected, out of tune, caterwaul is actually a deep, on point and accurate sing-a-long. Who knows, perhaps the west end of Glasgow is actually mainly populated by divas and dancers? If so, long may they rule.
It’s all good fun, despite the caveats, and the wriggling masses never let up, despite the drizzle. We meander through some Chic, which seems only fair given the amount of Sister Sledge stuff Nile Rodgers plays out on the road. Heck, it’s good enough that we even forgive some God-bothering malarky from on stage. Each to their own and all that. It appears I am not alone in ambivalence to the great man above as an entreated, “Sweet baby Jesus”, brings a bracing, “Fuck God”, response from the cheap seats up the back. Hilarity all round and I remain unconverted and doomed to the Disco Inferno down below.
Luckily for them and, more importantly, me, all dubiety is thrown out the window by a quite rapturous, 10 minute, version of ‘We Are Family’ as the closer. It’s one of those rare instances of band, song, place and punters that makes one glad to be alive. If God were to appear I’d sign up there and then. The sisters belt it out, the crowd romp around and sing along, all is right with the world. One of the great moments in an entirely insignificant career observing bands, both big and small, dick about on stage. Utter perfection and, frankly, they could have just played it six times over and sent the drooling disco-bunnies home happy. Marvelous stuff and the perfect ender to a memorable evening, despite any reservations.
After all that, it seems only polite to check out the after-party at the newly renovated and re-opened Sub Club. A fine time is had and delirium ensues. That legendary venue remains the same, and yet… subtly different. In a very good and nefarious way.