200. The Human League

Wembley Arena

11 December 2021

This was supposed to be a bit of a nostalgia blowout. My oldest mate was meant to be my co-conspirator, but, in a move that in hindsight seems prescient, he dropped out. So, in his place, came my daughter, whose musical tastes sat about as far from this outfit as could have been possible. To be honest, so are mine, but there is still something quietly thrilling about seeing these people who used to dance about on the telly when I was a teenager.

Still, we had VIP seats, right above the stage, practically close enough to see the patina in Phil Oakey’s bald head. The view was phenomenal. The atmosphere… less so.

From the opening throb of “Mirror Man”, it was clear that this was going to be a polite evening. The crowd, a sea of fiftysomethings in sparkly scarves, clutching plastic prosecco flutes, were ready to have fun, but not too much fun. There were occasional bursts of movement, mostly during the hits, but for the most part it felt a bit flat.

Phil Oakey, once the high priest of future pop, still looks the part: sharp suit, formidable presence, that trademark fringe long since surrendered to time. His voice, however, has lost a bit of its voltage. What was once arch now sounds closer to piano bar croon. Somewhere around “(Keep Feeling) Fascination”, the lines between synth grandeur and pop dirge began to blur.

Even Susan Ann Sulley and Joanne Catherall, eternally glamorous and still executing their synchronised prancing with military precision, couldn’t quite inject life into proceedings.

They smiled, they spun, they looked immaculate, but it all felt strangely hollow, as though everyone involved was waiting for the magic to happen rather than creating it.

My daughter, bless her, tried. For the first half-hour she watched with curiosity, more anthropologist than fan. However, by the time “Human” rolled around, even my patience had given up. The band soldiered gamely through the catalogue, the crowd applauded dutifully, and I found myself checking my watch, and with a quiet nod to each other, we slipped out into the December night, leaving behind the diminishing sound of “Don’t You Want Me”, which as it turns out, we didn’t.