In an age where any trendy band needs a monicker like Curve, Swerve, Perve or Verve, calling yourself Savage Garden, conjuring up an early 1980s romanticism, is a form of self-imposed exile from hipness. Not that Savage Garden pay much attention to fashion, on the evidence of this week's gig.
They play a stadium-rock-in-a-box of the most traditional and radio-friendly kind. They have two mealy-sounding guitars. They wear what looked suspiciously like leather trousers. They have pretty backing singers. They want to see your hands in the air. It sounds like Foreigner playing the songs of Simply Red, and it's about as adventurous as cheese on toast. They're not afraid to steal from well-known songs either (the most laughable was the chorus from Smells Like Teen Spirit).
Savage Garden are one of those mock soul bands that split people into two camps, along the lines of those who like or loathe Wet Wet Wet. Those who like the music would regard them as great showmen on a good night out. The rest see them prancing about the stage, singing in a silly falsetto and talking in a mid-Atlantic drawl. A full Red Box was firmly in the first camp. I'm afraid I was firmly in the second.
