41. Simple Minds
The O2 Arena
30 November 2013
The last time I saw Simple Minds, it was at the Roundhouse, a venue so intimate it felt like we were all about to be handed scented candles. Which, for a band whose natural habitat is stadiums, after, let’s be honest, landing a lucky break with an ’80s teen movie anthem, does not feel like it belongs there. Rather, it felt like watching a Formula One car trying to reverse out of a Tesco car park; impressive, sure, but not quite in its natural habitat. Jim Kerr crooning to a modest crowd of North Londoners instead of an ocean of Midwestern Americans with foam fingers up in the nosebleeds didn’t feel right.
But tonight? Tonight, they’re home. Big stage. Big lights and more dry ice than a hair metal gig. This is Simple Minds in full arena mode; unleashed, unapologetic, and pumping out synth-drenched anthems so powerful they should come with a seatbelt.
They launch into the hits with all the subtlety of a glitter cannon at a funeral. “Glittering Prize”. “Promised You a Miracle”. “New Gold Dream”. Every song lands like it was genetically engineered to bounce off stadium walls and burrow into your nostalgia cortex. It’s loud. It’s over-the-top. It’s everything your inner teenager secretly wants, whilst your outer adult pretends to prefer Nick Cave.
Say what you like about Simple Minds, but they were never just that one Breakfast Club song. They were an entire era, albeit one that occasionally veered into political territory so heavy-handed it made you long for the emotional nuance of a Coke ad. Let’s just say we were all relieved Mandela got released, and not just for humanitarian and geopolitical reasons.
But then it happens. That “Oh, oh, oh, oh!”. you know the one. rips through the air like the ghost of John Hughes himself just stage-dove into the crowd. “Don’t You (Forget About Me)”. It’s less a song and more a Pavlovian trigger for anyone who ever owned a Walkman. Suddenly, we’re all sixteen again. Punching the air. Imagining we’re in a trench coat, wondering if Molly Ringwald is free for coffee. It’s a communal moment of pure, glorious nonsense, and yes, we love it.
And here’s the thing: Simple Minds in their rightful element; arms aloft, riffs echoing, strobes firing like it's 1985 is still a sight to behold.
They were never cool, not really. But they were grand, and dramatic, and somehow sincere enough to get away with it. And tonight, they remind us why that mattered. So go ahead. Pretend you're above it. But when the synths swell and the chorus drops, don’t lie, you’re right there with the rest of us, punching the air like Judd Nelson, now with dodgier knees and a sore back.