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DOLLAR

Night Out, Birmingham

By Kevin Wilson

IT TOOK a lot of courage coming to this gig. Mixing with gangs of architects, bank managers and accountants with mollycoddled molls in tow is a hazardous business.

Dollar are a fire pop act — the art of cabaret is the art of varnishing, the lacquered finish, the plastic coat, thin veneer that separates the touchable and the unreachable. David and Theresa hold hands, smile happily, dance divinely, dress beautifully and sing sweetly.

The cabaret takes second place to the inane chit chat of the high brow, a definite nuisance to the wine-o brigade. “Who are they Charles?” “I think they’re Scandinavian dear, friends of Abba.” What, Dollar are Abba and Bucks Fizz and the bloody rest of the MOR pop hierarchy all rolled into one perfect duo.

As midnight approaches and men turn back into mice, the resplendent make their way home in a fleet of tatty limousines and horse drawn hackney cabs.

Average age at the Night Out: around 35 — Dollar are young. The kids stayed at home when they should have been in the front row. How are you going to learn anything by staying at home?

Never let Dollar near such a venue again. Dollar must be seen to be doing what they stand for. Real pop. The Land of Make Believe belongs to Bucks Fizz and marauding accountants.