The Garage, London
18 January 2002
Not just another of those long-thought forgotten altered-state Pop could-have been idols extracting and revitalising themselves from the Eighties and onto the stage again, Frank Tovey, here backed up by a full band is back. In front of an audience half uncolourful and speckled with piercings in place of acne, and half old enough to have been there the first time Fad Gadget stalked the earth, tonight’s show turns out to be a serious joke on the notion of Electro posturing and Gothic cabaret croons. As a passing stranger at the bar remarks as Tovey manifests in a puffing gout of theatrical smoke, all bowler-hatted and spiney-shirted, “It lives.”
He lives, and is live and lively; the Electro-pop is dark and twisted, and so is Frank. No Rock star pose is too much for him, and often not nearly enough. During the course of the show, there are more tongue-waggles, outflung out arms and backflips than the average poseur half his age could manage, and more besides. Tovey shakes hands avidly with the front rows, crowd surfs across the room, bites the hand that applauds him with a tender viciousness that merks out his performance. How he is adored, and how he takes the crowd beyond the norms of appreciation, faking forced fellatio at the front of house during “Coitus Interruptus”, later pulling a willing man onstage to ride him piggyback during “Back To Nature”. All the while Mr Gadget lets rip some of the strangest songs of love and life ever written, stopping songs that don’t start to his satisfaction, explaining simply but persuasively, “It’s got to be right.”.
There is a power drill for the industial grinding klang of “Ricky’s Hand”, a swung mic cord wrapped around the neck, pulls out his body hairs to sprinkle among the crowd during “Lady Shave”, a bared chest cast with tar and feathers exposed for “Ad Nauseum” (dedicated with arch aplomb to Gary Glitter). “Fireside Favourite” is introduced thus: “It’s time to get sleazy. By the way, this is Swing. So fuck off Robbie Williams.” Likewise, he out-Almond’s Marc, has more techno savoire-faire than the emotionless Gary Numan ever could imagine, has the bittersweet lust/disdain for life and its inhabitants of Iggy Pop, Jim Thirlwell and Matt Johnson combined, sings with all the dark high camp passion of Peter Murphy. It’s not a matter of who begat who, but of a recognition of Fad Gadget’s place in the overall scheme of things that this return to public activity presents, alongside the belated Best Of Fad Gadget album the tour accompanies. Twenty years may have revealed some flaws of comparative primitivism in the recordings, but live, Fad Gadget draws strength and vigour from the situation and makes the songs writhe with newly-enhanced energy.
Most of the entertained world of consumers have never even heard of the days of mainstream interest in artists who were genuinely invigorating, however competent in the Pop scheme they might have been, let alone this tightly-wound Mr Punch and his disarmingly gripping stage presence. Frank Tovey has entertained while simultaneously caressing and gripping an audience tightly by the throat and heart tonight.
-Antron S. Meister-
