Melody maker 22 October 1988

Tom Tom Club live in `The Wag` in London 1988

WHIZZ! We're here! And so is the well-dressed half of
civilisation, even though The Wag is probably the worst
place in the kingdom to see a band. It's smaller than
an ant's ear, poorly ventilated, has lights which are
aimed straight into your face and a stage made out of
a single layer of matchboxes. Unless you braved the
front row or had brought along a starry-eyed lover to
stand on, it's impossible to catch more than a glimpse
of something which may have been the top of Tina
Weymouth's head. Saggy Chris Frantz, a man who would
normally have amazing difficulties getting beyond the
doorman's leather gloves, is hidden to all. Nevertheless,
because of its long unchallenged status as the hippest
hop in the glitter-zone, it's a fine venue in which to
experience the Tom Tom Club, to sway, bob and gasp upon
grasping the full implications of their glorious groove.

Bang! Bang-bang-bang! The Weymouth-Frantz combination
is faultless. After over 10 years of being locked together
in the same smart rhythms, it damned well ought to be.
With the opening song, they're happy enough to take minor
roles, rippling and tickling underneath, rocking a safe,
snug cradle Their efforts are barely discernible. As "Genius
Of love" begins to wind up they push themselves to the
fore and the up-and-down, back-and-forth motions continue
throughout the greater part of the set. Whether it's
soothingly sensual or blatantly bolder, it's an ever
reliable momentum. It's what makes the Tom Tom Club the
best band in the history of the schoolyard. They're ideal
to skip along to.

Flash! "Wordy Rappinghood" is the greatest skipping song
of all. The beat weaves and wanders, prodding the other
elements this way and that, gravitating them back towards
the centre with a playful smack across the skull. It
insists upon not only concentration, but upon a certain
amount of pure exhibitionism, an extra little jump, a big
suspended leap, a spin and a roll. "Boom Boom Chi Boom
Boom" works along the same lines. In spite of the title,
there's less messing around with nonsensical lyrics, but
the musical nips and tucks, mostly, wonderfully, in the
wrong places, add up to a neat fashionable accessory.

Whizz! Here we go again. Each song also bears the marks
of the unknowns, the guitarist and the keyboard player
casting their lots with considered abandon. Every sound
is spiced up with electro-eccentric trickery, a perfumed
round 'n' tumble. Some of the FX are describable with
vague words such as fuzz, wail, grumble and grate, others
have to be left to the imagination. With "Don't Say No"
I kept thinking of the buzz of a dentist's drill and the
whimper of a dreaming dog

Bang! Are you getting the hang of this? The Tom Tom Club
flip-flop from an efflorescent funk to a rewarding rock
and whichever way they turn it's a solid sorcery, always
malleable, rarely breakable. The only disastrous slip
comes with a cover of a Bob Dylan song, Frantz's less
than desirable vocals replacing Weymouth's venerable
tones. It's introduced by "the critics don't think we
should touch this . . ." and is followed by "how are
the kids supposed to know about these songs if we're
not allowed to play them?" I haven't the faintest idea
what it was called [She Belongs to Me] and after this
rendition, I've no intention of trying to find out.

Forgetting that, we're left with whizz, bang, flash, mmmm.
The Tom Tom Club prompted me to tap the person in front of
me on the shoulder and propose marriage. He said yes. His
name is Tommy Steele. You're all invited to the reception.

PUSH.