Rumer

On Tuesday, I saw Simply Red and Rumer as a double bill at the Brighton Centre. And Money's Too Tight To Mention. I mean that can be the only reason why a tour programme cost £25. Those for whom finances are less of a problem queued up to receive a glossy gift box that contained branded tote bags, a tour lanyard, etc that, together with the concert ticket, ran into hundreds of pounds. Simply Red are not unique in setting out on the road to maximise income, so I dismissed the temptation to be disapproving, purchased a beer and took my seat. Rumer wasn't a perfect match as a "support act". I love her voice, have her albums and have seen her many times. But the 40 minutes she showcased was one-paced and came across as a little flat for an audience buzzing (and talking) in anticipation of Mick Hucknall and his crew. This was a shame - Rumer was in fine voice, she dressed in a diaphonous gown and she repeatedly told the audience how grateful she was for the chance to tour with Simply Red. I just felt the audience failed to appreciate her, though there was polite applause when she bid goodnight. No, Mick Hucknall was what what people had mostly come for and he kept us waiting an extra 15 minutes. When he finally appeared, he hit the black lacquered stage and launched a chronological set of Simply Red material with admirable gusto. After a sizzling opening of "Sad Old Red", "Jericho" and "Money's Too Tight To Mention", Mick addressed the crowd with some wistful acknowledgements of time passing (this is Simply Red's 40th anniversary, though obviously Mick was a Frantic Elevator before that), not feeling "a day older than 65" (his actual age) and an apology for the late arrival caused, he said, by the late kicking in of tablets for an inflammation. The first few songs truly showed what a great voice he has, but he did show signs of tiredness towards the end of the 100 or so minutes, when he veered dangerously towards pub singer territory. The chronological order was as structured and precisely designed as everything else about the night's show, and it worked. Maybe there were a few too many mainstream covers ("The Air That I Breathe", "You Make Me Feel Brand New", "Reach Out I'll Be There") for my liking in a set that already includes a cover of Barry White's "It's Only Love", the aforementioned MTTTM and, of course, "If You Don't Know Me By Now", but every one is a crowd pleaser and pleasing the crowd is what the night was all about. And leaving everyone with a little less moolah. If starting out with strong material risked an anticlimactic end, Mick had that sorted too with a rousing closer of "Fairground" by which time he was brave enough to attempt a samba, swivelling his hips in the manner of a Latin lothario, a character he has attempted for most of his life, allegedly. The competing rhythms of Latin America highlighted the only quibble I could have with the evening. The woman immediately in front of me decided that any song faster than a death march meant she should stand up. For most of the evening, she was the only person in a tilted bank of seats who felt this way and, asserting her right, she spun around frequently, glaring at fellow audience members as if to say, "Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough". As if to further discourage this option, she punched the sky from time to time, quite comically but eliminating any possibility of seeing over her and her Crystal Tipps hair do. The strangest thing about her was that, like Strictly dancers in their first week on the show, no matter what rhythms were presented in the songs being played, she somehow detected one that wasn't and jigged up and down violently in opposition to the music. Meanwhile, by complete contrast, her husband slept through most of the show (genuinely) only to have her massage his face, whenever she noticed. A truly odd couple. I did wonder if white powder might be involved, which is possibly why I heard a clarification by Mick Hucknall in a particular light. On returning for the encore, Mick reassured the audience that he wasn't ill. He said, "I don't have a cold or the flu or anything like that, I just have a simple inflammation in my nose and behind my eyes, so don't worry about me". I didn't. But call me a cynic - he came out for the show like a middleweight boxer, ready to win back the title, with a roaring voice and he'd needed medication to quell a nasal inflammation. Just saying. Maybe it was just the arythmic dancer on a spring in front of me. Luckily, the promoters had chucked money at screens, graphics, videos, lighting (lighting and screens were noticeably absent when Rumer was performing) and great sound (which admittedly might not always be the case in my recordings). Nothing, not the exorbitant costs (borne by many, but not by me), the punching dancer, not the potential jeopardy of an inflamed (a new flamed?) singer, could detract from an excellent set, expertly performed, happily received. I know Mick Hucknall is Marmite to most. Whether it's his ginger hair, his gnomic looks, his dread locks, he's a figure of fun to many. But he can sing, he loves the music (both his and that of those to whom he pays tribute in the show - sad that he had to explain who Lamont Dozier and Joe Sample were) and he does put on one hell of a show.