The Demon Barbie

This review was fun to write. The jury's out on whether it will be fun to read.

THE MILE HIGH YOUNG TEAM/ HOUSE OF BLUE DOLLS/ BACK POCKET PROPHET – Grinning Spider, The X, 4/10/07

Likable. It’s a positive adjective, to be sure, but not one that you’d really want associated with your metal band: it’s more the sort of word you expect to be applied to a floppy-eared dog, or a backward farmhand. Be that as it may, Back Pocket Prophet’s classic NWOBHM fuzz and thump is just the tonic to raise a smile and a warm glow. This – go on, let’s say it - likable trio is so friendly and comfy, you see, even if it’s also tight and loud, full of meaty riffs and nourishing marrowbone jelly.

Of course, we could sit here and tell you all about how Back Pocket Prophet’s music was a big hairy cliché without too much in the realms of originality or adventurousness, but that would be to ignore the glaring fact that their set was foot tapping, head nodding, beer guzzling good fun, and that we’ll deck anyone who says different (unless they’re as big as the drummer of course). Furthermore, you’ve got to wonder why other metal bands don’t dip into Christianity for their lyrical content, the New Testament is such a great source of heavy rock tropes: betrayal; sacrifice; rising from the dead; parties with unlimited free booze.


The House Of Blue Dolls (1978) was a lacklustre soft porn horror, modelled loosely on Andre De Toth’s House Of Wax and apparently scripted solely from offcuts from other recent chillers. When an erotic wax sculptor (you know, there’s one in every town) is maimed in an implausible collapse of his studio, he animates his creations and sends them off to kill all his enemies…sexily, which is obviously the most efficient way. What we get, therefore, is a loosely clipped together series of mini-episodes, far too slight to be called portmanteaux, and a bunch of bouncy 70s boobs, which are about as arousing as support hosiery. Peter Cushing, presumably skint since Hammer ground to a halt two years before, looks deeply uncomfortable as the inexplicably ubiquitous chimney sweep, but retains a shred of dignity by being the only male in the film not to be involved in some lame romp with a waxy Benny Hill “bird”. From www.thegildedfang.com, cult horror reviews online.

Oh, OK. We made that up. I guess our mind was wandering during House Of Blue Dolls’ somewhat lumpy set. Their music is nothing if not adventurous, welding rock, blues, funk and jazz together with noteworthy musical ability (the rhythm section particularly impress), but, like Boris Johnson’s hair, it seems that there’s no way of making it actually work together.

All this would be fine, and we’d be happy to wait until HOBD found their inner Zappa, were it not for the annoyingly strident female vocals. Up and down she goes, honking out huge notes exactly when the music would benefit from a little subtlety, with a horrible stage school emotiveness that reminds us of long gone local blusterers X-Hail, just when we’d managed to expunge them from our memories. So, the lesson is, ditch the Bonnie Tyler vocals and work on the promising arrangements. Otherwise we’re sending out the waxworks, right?


Thankfully, we soon see drummer Dario using his powers for good, as The Mile High Young Team take to the stage. They have the smallest crowd of the night, which just goes to show that nearly everyone in the world is stupid, as they’re clearly the best act on the bill. We’ll be the first to admit that their recorded work drifts past us a little, but in the live arena the intricate, articulate rock constructions are fascinating, whilst the teasing melodies swirl around the consciousness.

If the Blue Dolls’ singer was still in the room, she could have learnt a lifetime of lessons from Emily Davis’ poised performance, which delicately imbues the vocal lines with stately presence, without ever feeling that the songs are being milked for their emotional content. One lyric that jumps out at us is “it strikes you just a glancing blow”, because this is exactly what MHYT’s performance does: it doesn’t feel the need to grab you by the lapels and slap you in the face, but sneaks up on you before unexpectedly clipping you from behind. And when the boys join in the vocals for a crescendo the Team do, in their own quiet way, actually rock pretty hard.

We can highly recommend this band to anyone who likes their pop music cultured and well-groomed. Admittedly a few keyboard twiddles seemed unnecessary and clumsy, but they were perhaps filling in for the sadly absent ‘cellist; also, once or twice the rhythmic restraint can make the songs feel a little distant, which is a pity. Still, we thoroughly enjoyed the set, even if just occasionally, like Peter Cushing, we weren’t really feeling anything.