What's in a name? WET WET WET

I always think of myself as someone whose heart is in the right place - 1987 most probably, and so how could I turn down the chance to see Wet Wet Wet play a small, intimate gig at KoKo?

Wednesday 20th May 2015

Wet Wet Wet

So, when did I realise that it was a mistake?  Possibly when I played a selection of their finest hits on Spotify whilst getting ready and realised that I'd never really liked them much in the first place.  But definitely when we emerged from the tube station to discover that the entrance to KoKo was entirely obscured by hormonal, middle aged women, queuing around the block to be the first at the feet of Marti Pellow.  

It started so far with our first EVER visit to Mornington Crescent.  Why?  Sorry, I haven't a clue.

Somewhat afraid, the dance happy girls took refuge in a pub, and this is where we began to unpick why we had got this so disastrously wrong.  Saying you love 80s music, which we do, is all fine and dandy highwayman but the 80s was an eclectic mix, less a melting pot and more a stir fry where each genre kept its own distinctive flavour.  We love synth and ska, new romantics and punks, rocabilly and reggae but, as a whole, we don't do unadulterated 'pop'.  I had the sneaky suspicion that Wet Wet Wet were the water chestnuts in our 80s stir fry.

Summoning up our courage we crossed over to Koko, and you can't walk through the doors without being happy that you came.  It is all chandeliers and plush balconies, cavernous toilets and twiddly bits.  

I loved it at once.  

It was however heaving and whilst longing to take a peak at what kind of woman had got the coveted 'at the feet of Marti' position, we held well back.

Sometime after 8.30 screaming announced the arrival of the diminutive Marti Pellow who introduced the music therapy charity Nordoff Robbins.  It surprised me that at Tech run, nobody had noticed that the back third of the audience couldn't see the screen because of the combination of the screen being too high and balconies being too low, so alas I was unprepared to squat and therefore learned little, but have included a link above.

And so it began.  At least I know now why they are called Wet Wet Wet.  Marti Pellow, is a good looking, tiny man (although in the name of research I must tell you that he CLAIMS to be 5'11) and he can still sing.  But personality was missing in action and who were all the other people on the stage?  The drips???  He didn't need to work hard to be fair, the screaming, t-shirt waving and no doubt knicker throwing carried on regardless but when you've seen the likes of Glenn Gregory, Ranking Roger, Peter Cox and Suggs really engage with their audience, work the crowd and perform their butts off, well it was all just a bit….wet!  He wasn't even channelling miserable bastard a la Terry Hall, he was all toothy grinning, it was just….. well, I think you see a pattern emerging here.

I did quite enjoy 'Wishing I was lucky' I bopped 3/4 heartedly and so here it is just for you dear reader.

I can't tell you how many songs they did before I casually said to my dance happy pal "If you think you've heard enough at any point tonight - I could be talked into leaving" and she said with inelegant haste "Let's do it!" 

The titivating area- blissfully empty as every other female worshiped at the shrine of MP.

It was a relief to escape to the blissfully empty, toilets in the catacombs and regroup before furtively leaving - hoping we weren't spotted by anyone who might know us.

On the way home we mused about life - and bacon wheat crunchies.  

"Bigger than I remember" I said

"Unlike Marti Pellow" Janie replied.