153. ABC

Royal Festival Hall

25 October 2016

ABC were the original high priests of pop sophistication, the kings of the kiss-off line, the lords of the lacquered fringe and I had a box at the Royal Festival Hall to see them remind us that pop, when done properly, is every bit as vital, clever and melodramatic as any rock’n’roll tantrum ever staged.

A friend could not make it but gave his seat up to a mutual friend I had known since the mid-Eighties and an ABC lifer. Bless him, my metalhead pal was also along for the ride, despite this being as far from his genre pool as is possible. He was along for the craic and the promise that there was a full orchestra backing tonight’s musical offerings.

The crowd was a mix of faded Blitz Kids, minor civil servants in velvet jackets, and people who once had their hearts broken on a night bus home to "All of My Heart". The air was thick with nostalgia and an indecent amount of hair product.

Martin Fry arrived on stage, decked in a shiny silver suit, looking like the human embodiment of a saxophone solo. Gleaming, unashamed, cut like it had been tailored by a Bond villain’s couturier. He shone like a disco ball, and we loved him instantly.

The set was a slick, swooning journey through The Lexicon of Love, that debut album that still reads like the most elegantly bitter breakup letter ever committed to vinyl. Every track, from the opening sparkle of “Show Me” to the lush ache of “All of My Heart”, was delivered with that Fry blend of croon, and pure pop theatre. The years had done little to dim his voice, still clear, still precise, still capable of making you feel like he’s serenading your worst romantic decision from across the ballroom.

But this wasn’t just a nostalgia reel. There were cuts from the then-recent Lexicon of Love II too, and they nestled in like long-lost cousins, a little older, a little wiser, still dressed for cocktails at heartbreak o’clock. Between numbers, Fry charmed the crowd with his usual mix of dry humour and humble gratitude, slipping between old-school showman and Yorkshire gentleman with ease. “Still trying to write that perfect song,” he said at one point. “Not there yet but getting closer.” Martin, mate: you got there in 1982. The rest is just aftercare.

By the end of the night, as “The Look of Love” turned the Festival Hall into a swaying sea of middle-aged romantics mouthing the lyrics like an incantation, at one point my old friend turned to me and said: “Still my favourite band.” No one disagreed. How could you?