For the young and the blithely ignorant old, it’s hard to comprehend the cultural impact that Liverpudlian combo Frankie Goes To Hollywood had on these shores in 1984. From lascivious chart toppers banned from the airwaves to Cold War condemning video premieres on Channel 4 midnight programmes, any FGTH appearance on the small screen was appointment television, irrespective of whether or not you were blessed with Betamax or VHS. Upon each release the cash registers pealed like provincial bell ringers on a Sunday morning. ‘Frankie Say…’ t shirts were a staple at the youth club disco, along with the plethora of market stall counterfeits sporting that nigglesome extra ’s’. Wham! aspired to ‘Make It Big.’ Frankie made it big.
Through the midst of the media maelstrom stood their urbane frontman Holly Johnson. In an era of endless tabloid celebrity speculation, quotes from unnamed ‘confidantes’ and unsubtly whispered rumours, Holly was the first openly gay pop magazine cover star. An articulate and effortlessly charismatic beacon of hope for the closeted and the sexually confused.
Quite the figurehead.
And now here we are, over 40 years on from that annus mirabilis in a sold-out City Hall.
Can Holly still enrapture the masses?
Reviewer says emphatically yes. Opening up with Welcome To The Pleasuredome – the epic title song of their number one album from that golden year – is an incendiary statement of intent that justifies every snake-hipped second of its ten minute duration. His five-member powerhouse of a backing band are cocksure and tighter than a tinseltown facelift. Clad in an ornate leather jacket and trousers, topped off by an eye-watering codpiece that would have made even Henry VIII blush, Holly cuts a spellbinding figure. With star quality in abundance, and vocal panache undiminished since his hit parade pomp, his theatrical hand gestures and trademark ‘one-two’ dance shuffle remain iconic. He delivered a sublime punter-pleasing set comprising of both solo and Frankie top tenners, discerning album tracks and quite possibly the finest two cover songs of the eighties, Born To Run and War. And to finish with that triumvirate of impregnable classics, Two Tribes, Relax and The Power Of Love ensured that nowhere else in South Yorkshire were people experiencing a more profound fifteen-minute climax. The pleasure was all ours.
