65. Spandau Ballet
Royal Albert Hall
30 September 2014
Five years earlier, my best mate and I had stood in a room watching Spandau Ballet attempt to convince the world that decades of mutual loathing had been water under the bridge, when in fact, the bridge was very much still on fire. The so-called reunion tour was supposed to be a celebration of bygone brotherhood, but even from the cheap seats, it was clear that Gary Kemp and Tony Hadley were maintaining the kind of passive-aggressive distance usually reserved for divorced couples who have been forced to share custody of a dog they both hated. The tension was palpable. It felt like if they so much as drifted within ten feet of each other, one of them might spontaneously combust.
Fast forward a few years and some poor, deluded soul in film production had decided that what the world really needed was a Spandau Ballet documentary. And not just any documentary, one that unearthed all the old footage, dragged the corpse of acrimony from its shallow grave, and then gleefully poked it with a stick for 90 minutes. The result? Soul Boys of the Western World, a film that promised a nostalgic romp through the Blitz Club, the New Romantic explosion, and their rise to fame, but instead functioned as an expertly curated grenade tossed directly into the band's already fragile détente.
Anyone with a shred of common sense could have seen that this was a catastrophically bad idea, like trying to host a Fleetwood Mac reunion by making everyone watch a highlight reel of their breakups. And sure enough, two years after this cinematic exercise in salt-rubbing, Tony Hadley walked yet again, signing off with what I can only assume was a theatrical flourish and a heartfelt "you’re all a bunch of twats" as he flounced out the door.
Naturally, when I found out there was a premiere of this cinematic disasterpiece, complete with a Q&A featuring the band and a post-screening mini-set of the hits, I knew there was no way I was missing this impending trainwreck. What a spectacle it was.
The film itself was a perfectly serviceable nostalgia trip, a peek into the early '80s fashion disasters, the Blitz Club years, and the strange collection of nocturnal peacocks that birthed the New Romantic movement. But the real gold came with the Q&A. Here was the band, lined up in front of us, chuckling away, slapping each other on the back, throwing out banter as if this was all just a jolly bit of fun, and definitely not a psychological minefield of resentment and buried rage. "Oh no, we're absolutely fine now," they reassured us. "No hard feelings! Water under the bridge! Ha ha ha!"
Except… the smiles were just a little too tight. The laughter was a little too forced. The whole thing felt like a hostage video disguised as a panel discussion. You could practically hear the unspoken “fuck you’s” hanging in the air, hidden behind gritted teeth and contractual obligations to keep it civil.
And then, of course, they played the hits, because nothing smooths over decades of bitterness like blasting out Gold one more time.
Was it all deeply awkward? Yes.
Was it worth it? Absolutely.