Golden Oldies
SOFT CELL – MY HARD SELL
I’m struggling to précis the private set performed at L’escargot in Soho by Marc Almond. Remember him? One half of Soft Cell, kings of 1980s synth-pop; his monster hit was Tainted Love. So much to cram in, such a crazy night.
The raison d’être for the event was this: a painter called Dan Llywelyn Hall – for whom the Queen has sat– had painted both our portraits for charity.
We were going to unveil the portraits, Marc would do a set and I would do an open-mic. That was the plan, anyway.
First, Marc and I sat in a deep red, hot, womb-like ‘green room’ underneath a neon sign saying SEX. He was fretting as he hadn’t done a technical rehearsal. ‘These things are more nerve-racking than playing to 20,000 people in the O2,’ he said, swigging water. (Soft Cell did a sell-out, final, farewell show in October 2018). All in all, this was a hot ticket – only 50 were available.
When it was showtime, I followed Marc – all tattoos, dusty black denim and dyed black hair – into a crowded upstairs room. Our unseen portraits, swathed in black, faced the audience on a pair of easels.
The accompanist sat down and plinked the keys. No sound came out. Oh. Dear.
The crowd swigged their champagne (included in ticket price; proceeds to Amnesty). ‘Unplug it and plug it back in again,’ someone catcalled. ‘Has anyone got a pound coin for the meter?’ some Soho roué in a beret cried.
Time passed. Marc’s white-powdered cheeks turned even chalkier. A man got on his knees and started fiddling with plugs and switches. As he did so, he jogged an easel and the larger of the portraits crashed to the floor.
It was 38 years since Soft Cell first reached No 1, thanks to what Smash Hits terms ‘a black-clad army of parent haters’, and I think we all felt the yawning time span.
Was this really the last time we would ‘Say Hello, Wave Goodbye’ to Almond, upstairs at L’escargot, with a dead piano and his portrait lying broken on the floor?
Then someone put up the painting, Almond started singing, and the room melted. ‘I can’t tell you how terrifying this is,’ he said.
Without amplification or a sound stage, the songs had an unvarnished, raw power. Less electro Krautrock; more Jacques Brel. Indeed, my favourite song was his heartbreaking take on Brel’s Ne Me Quitte Pas, called If You Go Away, a poem full love and pain.
And then – ‘Say Hello, Wave Goodbye’ – it was over; the entire 1980s in 25 minutes.
‘Who’d have thought we’d end up in this place?’ he said, before whipping the black cloth from his portrait.
Speaking for us all, I sense.