The Human League at Vicar Street, Dublin
No matter how good you feel today, there was a time, long ago, when things were much better. And even if you didn't know it then, your heyday had a soundtrack. If you happened to find yourself in Vicar Street last Monday night, that soundtrack was probably The Human League.
Nostalgia is not an edifying sensation - remember scrunch socks? Swatches? - but, like the Don't You Want Me inspired TV ad for the Fiat Punto, singer Phil Oakey and his backing singers Susanne Sully and Joanne Catherall owe their second bite of the cherry to the spending power of the same nostalgia market. Flooding into the venue with the assistance of untold numbers of Fiat Puntos and contracted baby-sitters, this market is not willing to sacrifice its dignity on the altar of wistful remembrance too readily, however. In fact, it takes precisely four minutes before the crowd ease back into their salad days. It takes, in short, The Things That Dreams Are Made Of.
The Human League provide a severe form of comfort. The clinical edge of their synthesizers, the plastic bounce of the beat, the morose tenor of Oakey's voice and the shrill accompaniment of Sully and Catherall make for a rather bitter madeleine. But this is the perfect crystallisation of a time: Tell Me When, Louise and Human ride on the clunky promise of the 1980s, a future of big polygonal graphics, still bigger shoulder pads and an infinity of stainless steel surfaces. Although the set is as contemporary, white and sleek as an iPod (are they retro yet?), both the instruments (Drum pads! Keytars!) and the sound remain frozen in the 1980s, at once bracingly futuristic and still reassuringly naff.
The still-joyous Electric Dreams, the still-brooding Being Boiled or, of course, the still-fantastic Don't You Want Me throb with the ache of nostalgia. The song that reached you first on the dancefloor, and again on the nostalgia circuit, will greet you one more time - on the soundtrack to a home equity release advert, perhaps, in a world still to come. - Peter Crawley
