March 2009

[Sweder]

I'd gone along with the idea really; not exactly bursting with enthusiasm.
Lionel Ritchie wasn't much more than a shadow from a long-distant past, a soundtrack to juvenile fumblings on the dance floor, to impossible discomfort in the blood-letting fields of the post-school discos. Oh the horror as the witching hour approached and you still hadn't 'got off' with anyone (or at least persuaded some skittish doe-eyed teenage girl to let you trample all over her delicate feet with your size elevens), or better yet tried to weazle your way into copping a feel of a subtely padded bra. All the while Lionel and his pals crooned away, making it all sound so bloody easy.

I actually had to think twice about going tonight. The chance to sit quietly in the Mill of Mundurno, fiddle with my new phone, supp Belhaven and retire to watch Clough on ITV was extremely tempting. But no, it would be churlish to pass up such an unexpected (and gratuitous) opportunity. Besides, SP would never speak to me if I turned down a date with Lionel.

And so it is I'm here to tell you; Lionel rocked my world tonight.
Who knew he was/ is responsible for so many anthemic tunes?
Not I. A timely reminder was duly delivered by a man completely in control of his audience.
Lights out and barely had the first wave of hysteria ebbed than in crashed Lionel with 'Easy . . . Like A Sunday Morning'. And the scales fell from my eyes. For here was the consummate professional, a true world class performer, working the crowd, tugging heart-strings, opening tear-ducts and getting every one of us up on our feet, clapping, gyrating and singing for all we were worth. Wave after wave of undeniable classic hits from the last three decades whipped the Aberdeen audience into a Lionel frenzy. Like a man caught in a vicious whirlpool I was dragged under before surfacing, wild-eyed, crazed with Lionel-lust, on my feet, punching the air. 'I gotta tell ya' - leaning on his mic stand, that unmistakable face glistening in the stage lights - 'there's nothin' like havin' a 300 lb man come up to ya and sayin' 'Lionel, I've made love to you many times.'' The women screamed, the men grinned wolfishly at one another; we all knew what he meant.

After bowing to the common trend of flashing a local sporting vest - Mr Ritchie paraded an Aberdeen FC shirt emblazoned with 'Lionel' across the back to inevitable rapturous applause - the great man had every man jack of us eating out of his profusely sweating palm. In fairness, having doted on his hosts he wise-cracked that any team with only seven in the 'w' column might have room for someone of his sporting prowess. A lesser light might have viewed this as something of a gamble; not this colossal Commodore. He knew the ground beneath his bouncing, striding feet was, like the city itself, hewn from immeasurably solid rock. As the evening unfolded I realised that Lionel holds the people of Aberdeen dear to his heart. That, or he simply knows exactly which buttons to press. It's just all so impressively effortless.
'I can't believe you're even better than the last time I was here. 'Course, you've had two years to practice . . . '

Running With The Night . . . All Around The World . . . Stuck On You . . . they just kept coming. Ritchie sweated up a storm, working through a series of apparently pre-soaked hand-cloths before, mercifully, during the shortest of breaks the curtain fell to hide the band (and most of the super-hot lights). The piano with which the show had opened returned, rolled silently onto centre stage by the local crew as Lionel sought solace in a black beach towel. Not for long.

'I want us to get intimate' - howls from the rapacious Aberdonian females - 'just you, me, and this piano'. Cue Lady, Hello and Three Times A lady. talk about your all-time spine-chillers. Seizing the heavily poignant moment Ritchie grabbed a hand mike and strode to the front of the stage.

'I wanna do a duet with the two thousand women in here tonight' semi-orgasmic screams filled the hall. 'I'll be Lionel Ritchie, and I want you-all to be Diana Ross.'
Endless Love, sung indeed as a duet, the audience in perfect time and, bizarrely, harmony, delivering a performance I can only describe as intensely moving. I had goosebumps, and it was warm as you like in there. He followed up by slipping effortlessly into full Commodore mode, laying the raunchy Brick House on us, directing the lights to pick out ladies in the crowd as he bumped and ground out the risque lyrics, band members following him across the stage as yet more women revelled in the spotlight. As the passionate applause died Lionel lifted his head, eyes sparkling. 'Let's take it up a notch.'

And, yes, we were dancing on the ceiling.
The man's infectious. Despite the distance to the stage he seemed huge in the way that only the very best performers do. Springsteen had it on the Born In The USA tour in '84; monstrous stage presence, the ability to conduct proceedings without apparent effort. OK, he's preaching to the converted - except, wait a minute, I was at best skeptical, at worst dismissive before this evening. And now let it be broadcast across the land; I stand four-square with any man to defend the name of the incomparable Lionel Ritchie; he's a superstar worthy of the name. He gave us two hours of full-on mutual adoration, filling the cavernous AECC with music and love, shamelessly embracing his audience with a fondness that comes with years of familiarity and genuine affection.

We writhed and jived on the edge of reason and the maestro sent us over the top, first with say You, say Me and finally, gloriously, in a speedball of insatiable frenzy, with All Night Long.
'We love you Aberdeeeeen!!!'
We love you, Lionel. Take a bow son.

[SIZE="1"]1. Lucky ticket; 2. Lionel; 3. Dancing On The Ceiling[/SIZE]