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Back to: Archive · 1995 Welcome to tomorrow, people! Blur - London Wembley Arena From the NME, 9 December 1995. By Mark Beaumont. The Universal's here. At last. Only two weeks ago this mighty cavern shook with the sound of two 'immortal' pop icons - Moz'n'Boz - disappearing up their increasingly pompous arses, the final gasps of two generations of old guard that had finally rocked 'til they flopped. Tonight, however, it plays host to a celebration, a coming of age - the ultimate landmark gig in a year of impossible peaks. Tonight, ladeezangenulmen, Blur join the Superleague. Not that they're fazed by it or anything. As The Great Escape movie theme blares out, the Four Horsemen Of The Prozac Apocalypse saunter onstage as if it's a soggy Wednesday at the Barnsley Frog And Cudgel. This is, after all, the band who've already annihilated Ally Pally, ostracised Oasis and manhandled Mile End. Hence, we are not witnessing an arrogance overload or the long-expected bout of gig fatigue - just a band who, having transformed themselves from a dead-on-its-arse streak of post-baggy piss at an NME charity night in '92 into an arena-shagging pop phenomenon in less time than Ian Brown takes to clean his teeth, are well aware that the impossible really, really, really does happen. And how. "The Salvation Army is playing here next week," Damon deadpans, a futile attempt to play down their triumph as they graduate from Enormodome Manipulation College in seriously confident style. Any scrap of back catalogue that doesn't have 'Era-Defining Classic Ahoy!' stamped into its every oomph-ah is casually dismissed, every barbed slice of suburban monotony is swept away by the sheer, sphincter-loosening achievement of it all and, inevitably, there are more highlights than you'd find in Rod Stewart's syrup collection. As Damon pogo spins, backward rolls and makes stretcher-tempting leaps into the photo pit to bark at the front row, he exudes a joyous sense that, yes, maybe this weekend it really could be you. But even more delightful is the way that Blur are laying their handful of jokers on the table - sending one last cartoon postcard from saucy suburbia before moving on. "This one's for all the boys," Damon says in laboured, self-mocking cockney tones as a football-shaped glitterball descends from the neon heavens for a waltz through 'To The End' that's more poignantly exultant than achingly winsome. And just when you think they couldn't get any more beautiful if they grew wings and flew around the arena scattering wine gums and sherbet dabs, Alex nonchalantly cocks his leg on a monitor, lights a fag and lets loose the thunderous bassline to 'She's So High' and suddenly they're exploring new planes of anti-contrivance. The laddish bravado and cocky my-old-man's-an-architect swagger are stripped away, exposing depths of vulnerability that Noelly-Woelly couldn't touch in a million extended acoustic interludes. Indeed, it's the more ironically-challenged 'classics' that sound the most tired these days. When Phil Daniels emerges for his 'surprise' slot (well, who'd 'ave thought...) he shuffles around looking embarrassed, partly because he gets less of a cheer than Ken Livingstone's genuinely startling appearance and partly because he's starting to recognise his status as the '90s' Buster Bloodvessel. 'Girls And Boys', meanwhile, is given a hearty poonk guitar thrashing but still feels like last summer's thumping E hangover. Thankfully, though, El Coxo's plectrum is still possessed by a horde of avenging thrash demons when necessary. Witness the force ten hurricane blast of 'Advert' charging straight into 'Bank Holiday' as Damon goads the whole head-on car-crash mess faster and faster. And then, wondrously, there's 'Popscene', finally gaining the respect, as a diesel-fuelled anthem for brain-dead hedonists everywhere, it always deserved. Masterful. But enough of glorifying the past - the future's nearly here. And for Blur, despite the bleakness of their zombie-drug vision (Damon plays the wiped-out white-out Prozac junkie to perfection during the grid-lock nightmare of 'He Thought Of Cars') it can only get brighter. So they lost the Great Album War and the cynics will undoubtedly beat their 'Public School Fakers' drum until the cows go back out again - big deal - you still feel that Blur have only just found their feet and 'Stereotypes' and 'He Thought Of Cars' are the sound of them strapping on the roller-blades. As Oasis get dragged helplessly along behind the influences they thought they had on a leash, Blur, arch pop chameleons that they are, will be out there defining the future and practically force-feeding their dust to each new wave of copyists. The gig of the century closes - perfectly - with the bleak and brutal immensity of 'The Universal' - a statement of Blur's ability to transport you into a blissful ultra-reality as easily as any wonder drug. As it climaxes in a storming blaze of horns and grandeur and Alex pops a champagne cork stage left, Damon collapses, lying still until the music has died away, overwhelmed by his deadheaded future-society scan; exhausted and relieved to have conquered the Simply Red Hyperleague in the opening seconds. Relegation, people, is not an option. |