In some future hyper-library, a search of late 20th-century popular music could turn up the following entry: Space - silly, smart-aleck scousers, the record company's idea of a perfect pop group. Or, more succinctly, Space - as in "a waste of . . ."
But what can you expect from a band preceded on to the stage at the Black Box by their own logo? Behind their sunshine pop veneer you can hear the creaking of marketing executives plotting their every move. You can hear it now: "Let's get some Northerners, put a little bit of Oasis here, some Popmart over there, and hey presto!"
Space, unfortunately, have all the hallmarks of being created and controlled by committee: "Never mind the quality, feel the marketing!"
As for the songs, only Liddy Biddy Love, the homage to Elvis, and The Unluckiest Man in the World, dedicated on the night to Glen Hoddle, seemed to have any kind of spark. The rest seemed like Cast's castoffs.
Playing their first date of the year, the band members themselves did at least have the good grace to admit that their playing was off form. Their difficulty, though, was in convincing us that their "on form" performance would be anything worth bothering about.