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University of Newcastle, 27th October 1998
The Bluetones don't have hairstyles to speak of, just follicular growth which has sat on their bonces like this since they were eight years old. So, as if to compensate for being as visually vital as wallpaper, they are wise enough to give it the balls-out treatment for radioland. There are no intimate moments or cozy cardigan-wearing choruses; rather, everything is cranked to the hilt until Morriss and company resemble a post-Britpop Motorhead.
"Solomon Bites the worm" recalls the JD-drinking, chug-a-lug bombast of Sixties modsters The Faces, but resists the temptation to ape Rod Stewart, while, stage right, John Peel pisses his pants. How did the Bluetones get this good? Well, probably by exercising strict quality control. Witness "Bluetonic", "Cut Some Rug" and "Sleazy Bed Track", all limp and victimised on record, triumphant and universal onstage. Around me skinny-fitted boys and girls are combusting in Technicolor puffs of smoke and screaming all the way through the set at Mark's ever confident swagger. So, the party town keeps its crown and tonight, for one night only, with their barbershop hair and brown clothes, The Bluetones are the perfect proletarian monarchs.
Extracted from Melody Maker, 7th November 1998