There's nothing to really say about these, or maybe, ideally, next to nothing. Except that Gene Loves Jezebel are a pouting, pretty elegance, consumed with themselves and each other, glam tarts dealing in favor and fancy with a lick and a glance. The best they can approach is a chancey, tongue-in-cheek shuffling of surfaces, a tiny irrepressible glee. 

Tonight they collapse a bit,. Not how they'd like, preening and posing, tumbling in on themselves, but just a few problems. A drum's bust, so they have to strut around, shuffling their locks, taunting us in the most forced Yank accents this side of Rose Of Avalanche. You can't accuse them of being fakes or charlatans, mind, the whole idea's loony. Pouting from matted strands of hair, it's all a great play-act anyway. 

Given that people will always dress up like this, and others egg them on, as a pop group they're brilliant. This very teen audience, done to the nines in get and eye shadow, are sure they're privy to some illicit and secret danger, bewitched by Jay's eyes or Mike's gladrags, the stadium poses gathered in from the States. They're as much Sweet as Bolan, after jovely nothings but flaunting themselves to the max, a glammy wave towards the make-up room. GLJ, hoary whores as Queen, are the Seventies notion of pop and proud of it. 

Their definitive song, really, is "Gorgeous", and it's as good as the night gets. 

Mostly they prance about, throwing shapes, proving that Ziggy never really died, lapping it all up. You need the charm of waifs to carry this off, and Gene Loves Jezebel drop hints at irony and glee while never sprinkling fairy dust, show off to (who knows?) they may look at the Bauhaus cover version route to mini-fame; tonight, GLJ are just he best poseurs in town. 
 
 

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