112. China Crisis
The Borderline
26 November 2015
China Crisis were one of those mid-Eighties synth-pop curios that briefly blinked into public consciousness, turned in a couple of Top of the Pops appearances, landed a few decent-sized hits, and then quietly slipped off the radar without making too much fuss. They were never the darlings of the cool kids, nor the scourge of the serious music press, and I hadn’t thought about them in decades, until I spotted a listing for a show at The Borderline.
Now a lost venue, swallowed by London’s insatiable hunger for luxury flats and artisan small-plate dining. It was one of those low-ceilinged, subterranean sweatboxes where the walls wept condensation and history. Blondie played their first UK gig there. Secret sets from American giants happened under daft pseudonyms. A frontman once allegedly died mid-performance on that stage. It was the kind of place that never looked clean even after a refurb but always felt electric once the lights went down and the amps hummed into life.
I could name exactly two China Crisis songs: “Black Man Ray” and “King in a Catholic Style”, both remembered less for lyrical profundity and more for being the soundtrack to school discos or background noise at Wimpy. But that’s never stopped me. Many of the shows in this diary I walked into knowing less. Besides, China Crisis held a peculiar place in the shared musical memory of my best friend and me, a fuzzy slice of teenage nostalgia, all shoulder pads and synths.
The Borderline, true to form, was heaving. The air was thick with the scent of damp coats, Red Stripe and ageing anticipation. A crowd of middle-aged punters gathered, not ironic hipsters or crate-digging revivalists, just fans who remembered these songs from the first time around and fancied an evening off from the real world.
The show was surprisingly OK. Two Scousers on stage, spinning out mildly familiar chart hits with a charming lack of pretence. There were stories between songs, about record label hijinks, about being mistaken for Simply Red at a festival in Belgium, about the peculiar moment when you realise, you’re now “heritage”. They were warm, funny, and in on the joke. The music was melodic, low-stakes, and carried by a voice that hadn’t aged all that much. The crowd swayed politely, cheered at all the right moments, and seemed genuinely happy to be there.
It wasn’t transcendent. It wasn’t life changing. But there are worse ways to spend a Thursday night than standing in a sweaty little club, drink in hand, singing along to a chorus you forgot you knew with your oldest mate by your side. Sometimes, that’s more than enough.