Waltzed in and Spaced out.

by Gary Hendersen

I think it was the publicity that attracted me, and a vague desire to see what New Zealand's First 'exponents of Glamour Rock' looked like. I was intrigued by the idea of a tall lanky guy camping around to the accompaniment of 'elaborate and complex lighting and sound effects', so I bravely wrenched a two dollar note out of my pocket and bought a ticket (complete with a photo of Alistair). Half an hour before the concert was supposed to start I arrived, ticket in hand, at the Union Hall, determined to get a good seat. The nice man at the door even let me keep my picture of Alastair (I felt quite overwhelmed) and I strolled up to a second row seat, and established myself there for the night.

Well, there I was, all this music coming over the P.A. which clicked and popped, then stopped, and I watched all these worried looking men scurrying over the gear prodding and twiddling anything that was proddable or twiddlable. Finally the music started again—loud freaky electronic stuff that I could have listened to all night, but no such luck. The lights went out and five shadowy figures crept on to the stage amid great soaring whoops, and reverberating thuds and swishes. Finally, the group connected a song on to it and the concert got under way with two numbers off their album. Then came the introductions (sporadic applause) and another number. Most of the songs were written by Alastair, but some that we were supposed to know were also included (to help the medicine down!)

After three-quarters of an hour, the group took a twenty-minute break, then returned, and dear Alastair (in a change of costume that made him look like a cross between Dracula and Twiggy) announced that they had somehow screwed up their Moog, and would have to do without it (which I thought was a fairly logical conclusion).

And the music? Well—it was loud, full of interesting bass work, short harmony lead runs, and solid keyboard and percussion backing, although it was a bit loose at times. (And if that jargon doesn't keep you happy, stop reading because there's no more). I can't compare their sound with anyone else's because I am not a connaisseur (or however you spell it) of rock music. All I can say is that nationally speaking, their sound is unique, certainly their style is.

But what about all these lighting effects I was breathlessly waiting for? I noted (with excitement) two light towers set up, when I came in, and was therefore expecting some mind-blowing light show. The light show, when it came, consisted of slow fades from one colour to another, occasionally getting rash and flicking from colour to colour in time to the music. The piece-de-resistance, however, was a sickly yellow follow spot, which seemed to have only a vague idea of what it was supposed to be following, and consequently drifted about at knee-level giving intimate glimpses of Alastair's guitar, the other guitarist's knees, or part of a bass drum and a cymbal stand. In fairness though, it managed to climb occasionally to head level and illuminate a face or two.

One thing that got my back up slightly (me being a peaceable character normally) was Alastair's attitude that he was playing to a crowd of teeny-boppers. The group was playing to a critical, appreciative audience who wanted something more than volume and beat. We were accused of being inhibited and uninvolved because we did not cheer madly and clap and stomp along with the music.

The finale was 'Out on the Street' (believe it or not) after which the group disappeared behind the stage and the lights came on. 'Come on Alastair, encore, more, more', mumbled the crowd. 'You'll have to do better than that!' screamed Alastair from behind the stage. 'Piss off!' yelled someone in the crowd. But they didn't. When they thought we were yelling loud enough, they came back on and we got another five minutes of loud music. Then they disappeared again, and the lights came on. This time it was for real, and I stumbled out dazedly through the smoke haze, my treasured picture of Alastair clutched in my fevered hand.

Very Disappointing. As case of Alastiar Riddell and lesser beings, I fear. The Mark II model of Spacewaltz would be one of the most lack lustre affairs I've witnessed in a dog's age. Quite simply, they put no life into what they were playing. The band Alastair toured with last year was a killer, but containing as it did half of Split Enz, it was doomed from the start. This new outfit is a poor substitute, especially the keyboards player, Paul Drury, whose playing was uninspired to say the least.

Alastair himself was great: no complaints there. He has a good voice, and uses it well, and his guitar playing is fine. It's a pity that his talent was let down by the non-talent of others.

What did they play then? Well, in the course of the evening they got through most of the album (if not all, in fact), but the playing was rather flat. Highlights, I suppose, were 'Seabird', Love the Way He Smiles', and 'Out on the Street'. A few non-original numbers were played such as, 'Lady Day'. 'Everything's Alright' and a truly godawful rendering of 'Queen Bitch'—a pity this, because given a good band, Alastair could equal, if not surpass, Bowie's original.

A lukewarm band got a lukewarm response from the audience, with many cries of 'fruit', 'poofter' and the like. Alastair's being coy with the crowd didn't help either. The band were grudgingly called back for an encore, and that was it.

Six months from now, Riddell will be a has-been—unless, that is, he gets his shit together. First, he must either get a new band, or else lick the present one into shape. Then he has to flog his ass off gigging up and down the country.

Maximum exposure is the only way that anyone can take off big in New Zealand.

This also implies a need for product: He must put out new singles and a new album soon. Alastair Riddell is at a crucial stage of his career. If he plays his cards right. New Zealand is his. If he continues to work haphazardly, a few gigs here, a few gigs there, pulling singles off his present alburn, and so on, then he might as well pack it in now, for in six months or so, everyone will have forgotten him.