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Dingwalls SCREAM SYNDICATE And so we saunter to the front of a jam-packed but suitably well-mannered audience. After all, the Messiahs are a bunch of mature Rhythm and Blues – I mean Vision and Blues, let's get our terminology right here – men dedicated to setting the lips humming and the feet tapping in a traditionally decorous manner, right? Bollocks. With our togs freshly deposited beneath the monitors, we find ourselves buried with them as the trio launch into their opener as 'the kids' go wild. I've seen the Messiahs on a number of occasions now, and I've been impressed by the way they've taken R 'n' B by the scruff of the neck and adapted it to the less sentimental, more agressive requirements of the 80s. However, Bill, Kenny and Chris are in danger of being passed over for this summer's next big thing, should it ever come about, for the kids going apeshit at the front want to go wild, full stop. The Messiahs come closest to fitting the bill at present, but in no way can they be seen as the next youth movement, the last traces of acne having long since departed from their faces. The sense of deja-vu I feel about tonight's bash relates to when I saw Eddie And The Hotrods back in nineteen-seventy-hem-hem, and what happened to them? The Sex Pistols. Oh, sod it. For the meantime let's not pontificate, let's vibrate to those pounding drums and gawp in wide-eyed admiration at the exploits and antics of malevolent beanhead guitar wonder Bill Carter. Good and gone.
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