CityLife

The X Factor Live Tour 2010

X Factor Live
MEN Arena
March 13, 2010

Had the japing brothers Jedward won the latest series of X Factor, then this would probably be the show's last ever live tour.

Let's face it, a victory for twins who sing and dance like demented meerkats would have made a mockery of the whole sorry shebang - casting ridicule over the false sentimentality of Cowell, Cole, Minogue and Walsh and leaving ITV the prospect of remortgaging the Rovers Return in order to remain in business.

Instead, the brothers grin fell out of the competition having upset the chances of far more worthy, yet much less interesting, contestants. Good for them.

And thank heavens for X Factor Live, because tonight John and Edward are here in all their back-flipping, out-of-synch, skyscraper-haired silliness.

Their first number - but not the first of the night - is the mash-up monster which materialises when the work of Queen and Vanilla Ice is merged in the musical blender. Later they'll fly the

length of the auditorium on overhead wires, edging ever closer to what is a near perfect inflatable recreation of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, singing the theme to Ghostbusters as they go.

And it was starting to look as though things were going to be so cabaret. It's not that there isn't other talent in the room, there is. It's just that they're all so damned earnest, telling us, as if we believe it, that we're the best crowd of the entire tour to date.

It's just more fun to watch a bit of honest tomfoolery. The organisers haven't even bothered to invite any of the hapless auditionees who are normally rewarded with ritual humiliation on the live tour.

Without any apparent research into the current employment status of the past winners who aren't Leona Lewis or Alexandra Burke, virtually everyone here tonight seems overly grateful at having earned a place on this stage.

Perhaps the first thing that catches my attention - and almost alight - is Jamie Archer's ever expanding hair.

'My Sex Is On Fire', he sings, covering The Kings Of Leon. But it's almost not the only thing that's on fire, as pyrotechnic flashes fly across the stage.

Credit is also due to Olly Murs, a singer-cum-lovely mover if there ever was one. At times he's impossibly bendy.

If there is a star in the making, then it's Lucy Jones, who should get out of the cabaret circuit and into a credible band before age and the notoriety of the nonentity catches up with her. Her voice has a flawless innocence and ease about it on tracks including Sweet Child Of Mine and she looks the part too.

Southern belle Stacey Soloman also looks the part and can sing like the best in any Vegas lounge. She's great,a revelation - until she starts to talk and then, once again, she might as well be a slim Pam Ayres in a posh frock.

I never did take to Danyl Johnson on the telly - he's the epitome of that aforementioned seriousness - but there's no mistaking that he has a good voice.

And then (I hope I haven't left anyone out) it's the turn of star performer, Joe McElderry, whose Christmas number one spot was so cruelly stolen by those pesky Rage Against The Machine campaigners. Joe has a great voice. But he somehow lacks personality: he performs like a re-rendering of Cliff Richard in an age which demands Jay Z.

In a year when Jedward lost out, it was Joe who got the X - perhaps we should be asking why?

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