182. Heaven 17
ULU Live
2 December 2017
Heaven 17 were always a bit of a “box-ticker” band for my oldest mate and me. We were never card-carrying fans, but Penthouse and Pavement did loom large for a while; that peculiar Sheffield-born cocktail of early industrial synths, Northern soul, and entrepreneurial optimism. It was the sound of the early Eighties: sharp suits, sharper haircuts, and a dance floor filler. Of course, neither of us ever actually danced, but we appreciated that other people did.
This gig felt slightly surreal: ULU Live, the University of London’s student union, a venue more accustomed to subsidised snakebites and Battle of the Bands semi-finals. Tonight, it had been transformed into an electro-pop cathedral for a congregation of synth veterans and dancing divorcees in skinny jeans, phones clutched on alert for an emergency call from the babysitter. At least one bloke sported a Luxury Gap tour T-shirt older than the bar staff.
Glenn Gregory, the eternal showman, built like a man who could sell you a second-hand Jaguar, arrived, dapper as ever. He strutted on in a sharp suit, flashing that same Cheshire-cat grin he’s been sporting since the mid-Eighties. Beside him, Martyn Ware lurked behind a fortress of boxes and cables, twiddling knobs with the serene precision of a man who definitely owns Japanese modular synth manuals.
They kicked off with “(We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thang” which, depressingly, sounds no less relevant now than it did in 1981. The bassline slapped, the synths shimmered, and Gregory’s voice boomed.
For the next ninety minutes, we were treated to a full-bodied, glossy, politically confused party. “Penthouse and Pavement,” “Let Me Go,” “Come Live With Me”, all gleaming and glorious, proof that Sheffield soul still beats strong beneath the chrome synths. Between songs, Gregory held court, telling stories, cracking jokes, and teasing Ware like they were still holed up in a council flat; the easy chemistry of two men who’ve seen pop’s rise, fall, and rebirth and managed to keep their dignity if not their hair.
Then came “Temptation.” You could feel it building: the anticipatory murmur, the glow of phones being raised, the stretch of middle-aged hips bracing for one last heroic sway. And that’s when it happened: a pre-mixed Pina Colada–wielding divorcee, not her first of the evening, suddenly ground her way into my personal space. I think it was meant to be seductive; it landed somewhere closer to Baloo from The Jungle Book. I gave her a polite shimmy and promptly fled to the opposite side of the room under the cover of the dancing crowd. She blinked, shrugged, and redirected her enthusiasm toward another unsuspecting punter.
By the end, the band were beaming, the crowd were drenched in joy, and even the ULU bar staff looked quietly impressed. Heaven 17 might not be the sound of the future anymore, but they remain flawless custodians of the past: slick, soulful, and just the right amount of silly.