POP MUSIC REVIEW : Capering Andy Bell Leads Erasure Through Zesty Evening

IRVINE —  The fact that Erasure is a mass-audience band fronted by an openly gay singer always gets a lot of attention.

Maybe that’s because the idea of a high-camp homosexual performer appealing to a large, preponderantly straight audience is a lot more interesting than anything that Erasure does musically.

Singer Andy Bell and keyboardist Vince Clarke have a knack for turning out catchy, pleasantly innocuous techno-fluff set to disco beats. On stage Friday night at Irvine Meadows, the sound was virtually all canned as the skull-faced Clarke (a near-ringer for Lou Reed in his glam rock days) fiddled impassively with digital keyboards while pre-programmed music provided most of the backing for Bell’s histrionic singing and capering shenanigans.

With virtually all the instrumental music coming from the playback reel, it was up to Bell to give the show life and immediacy. He proved to be a zesty performer who flounced and spun in outlandishly costumes across an elaborate stage set that might have been an enchanted cartoon cavern out of some kiddie version of Jules Verne’s “Journey to the Center of the Earth.”

However, Bell was far more interested in frolic than in fleshing out his songs’ generally superficial meanings.

As the British duo swung into a boppy tune called “Star,” which seems to be about SDI weaponry and its capacity for unleashing a nuclear Armageddon (that may be the most logical interpretation of this typically diffuse Erasure lyric), skyrockets shot into the night while spotlights danced and swirled across the stage and through the audience. It made for an exuberant moment but it failed to bring out the “1999”-style irony of partying in the face of doom.

Partying was enough, though, for an audience that stood and danced throughout the 85-minute show, singing along freely and cheering mightily at Bell’s every cheeky maneuver and cabaret diva pose. In fact, the continual commotion on stage supplied by the cavorting Bell and his backup crew of two capable singers and two unimpressive dancers--not to mention such inanimate stars as a snail on rollers and a gigantic dancing bee--kept the show entertaining. Clarke’s standard-issue rhythm programs became repetitious after a while, but there was mild pleasure to be had in sitting back and, without giving the content much thought, letting Erasure’s hook-filled tunes roll by.

That light, melodic approach and the overall buoyancy and optimism that separate Erasure from the gloomy Depeche Mode school of British dance-pop acts have helped Erasure gain a niche and a mass following (the duo sold out the Forum in Los Angeles in March, and still had the drawing power locally to attract about 10,000 fans to Irvine Meadows). Clearly, Bell’s out-of-the-closet homosexuality is no drawback.

Irvine is the city where a bitter, convulsive election campaign last year ended with voters shooting down a proposed law that would have protected gays from economic and job discrimination. That background made it more than a little ironic to hear thousands of young listeners singing along in Irvine to “Hideaway,” a wistful song about a young homosexual whose family shuns him after he decides to “come out.”

Unfortunately, Bell saved some of his most histrionic and distancing gestures for the number, losing his chance to give the moment resonance by making it seem personal and deeply felt. No matter what the lyric said, “Hideaway” came off as just another superficially catchy song. It would have been far better had he just stood still and sung the song, uh, straight.

Bell didn’t make a big point of his sexuality, instead simply camping along within the well-established, exaggeratedly theatrical tradition originated by gay cabaret performers. It’s a tradition with proven appeal for straight audiences, and it crossed over long ago into the rock world where it has served performers of all sexual persuasions. The Kinks’ Ray Davies, David Bowie, Elton John and Rod Stewart are among those whose stage personae have touched on the same sources as Bell’s.

In fact, Bell played things about as safely as an openly gay performer can. He drew upon the theatricality of the camp tradition but stayed judiciously clear of engaging its latent ironic bite, a bite that is a derided minority’s way of having the last laugh. Bell didn’t go in for any barbed jokes or double-entendre; when talking to the audience, he sounded like a jovial ringmaster along the lines of Phil Collins.

Anyone looking for deeper sexual commentary in Erasure’s show would have to read subtle meanings into all the phallic imagery on stage (lots of giant mushrooms, and a particularly bulbous flower extending behind Clarke’s keyboard station), or in the fact that Bell’s torso-covering, leg-baring outfits all resembled men’s bathing suits from the turn of the century. Maybe it was his way of saying that the gay ‘90s are back.

It would be a hopeful but mistaken notion to read into the crowd’s roaring approval of a gay performer some easing in society’s casually pervasive bigotry toward homosexuals. Keep in mind the character in Spike Lee’s “Do the Right Thing” who loves Prince but hates blacks, and therefore insists that Prince isn’t really black.

People are willing to lower their guard and love pop stars for the fun they provide. But only a sentimentalist would suppose that the momentary tolerance and good feeling that stem from being entertained carry over to perceptions of life beyond the footlights. If Andy Bell exhibited overtly gay behavior on the street hereabouts rather than on the stage, it’s unlikely the reaction would be thunderous applause.

Let’s not be too cynical, though: We have to hope that vivid artistic expression truly can reach at least some people. The film “Longtime Companion,” or songs such as Stewart’s “The Killing of Georgie” or Tom Robinson’s “Glad to Be Gay,” may lead beholders to re-examine their ideas about homosexuality. But vivid artistic expression is not what Erasure is about.

The Origin, a young band from La Jolla, made a fine first impression with its half-hour opening set. The songs from the Virgin Records act’s debut album were by-now-familiar expressions of post-adolescent anxiety over confronting a confusing world. But that subject is eternally valid, and singer-guitarist Michael Andrews gave his account with deep emotional conviction, if not much lyrical acuity.

Andrews’ voice was surprisingly sturdy and rangy, considering its nasal-scratchy timbre. Behind him and his acoustic guitar leads, a firm rhythm section and warm, coursing keyboards created a tight, clean, layered sound marked by ebbing and swelling dynamics. Like the engaging Australian band the Go-Betweens, the Origin showed that intensity and quiet restraint don’t have to be mutually exclusive.