Nothing in the world sounds like Prefab Sprout.....

...That is Frankfurt in December and here come the suppliers of the heavenly music of '85...Prefab Sprout. How should life on the stage look? This sound of "Steve McQueen", which seems to have been produced for the rest of the pop-era who wanted to slumber under the bedclothes of evergreen middleschoolers. As is well known they are busy in the CBS stable and these people certainly must let them ride their horses in the high-tech discos as well as the music-hall on the Votastrasse. The thing used the juice of the AKW almost to completion.
 
As the beautiful towers and mixing desks which lay around there, overall a tiny illuminated triangle to gate at and laser equipment for star wars. The entry charge at the evening cash desk was then also DM21.00 (Pils at the bar DM5.00) At 9 o'clock there was about half a thousand Frankfurt people, no punks, no skins, many decent beautiful people from young to beer-belly, to the real Prefab Sprout addicts and also I believe half of the West German Record Industry Mafia. Belief is worth double here since our lame reporter always avoided hard-neckedly making any contact with anyone in this shed, amusing Marty McAloon who plucks the bass with Prefab Sprout. I was already half drowsy with all the afternoon radio music as the group stepped on the stage. (Golden advice for the next time: Stop your ears until the group comes.)
 
A clear front on the smart stage. In front Mr. and Mrs. McAloon and Smith, the universally respected Wendy in black tights and a red shirt dress, black shoes, but the feets. Herr DD, I didn't see unfortunately. The good Paddy now beardless, accentuated insignificantly, rather holding something back, but man and wife dreamlike as they wandered their voices through the melodies, here and there a key change with a devil of a strech to get over the peaks of the harmony, in order to describe the dramas of the well guarded. I believe sometimes it was not possible to hear Wendy, the delicate voice crushed by the male front music machine, however she knows all the text of her friend Paddy and is a charming person. Behind the master is the amusing brother Martin on the bass. Neil Conti on Gretsch percussion and a Blackman (sorry I don't know his name) on the synthesizer. With the three aforementioned extras Prefab Sprout played through their two albums, before all naturally the thing from "Steve McQueen", the second version of "Faron Young" absolutely great (Here Martin struck the three well known Pretty Woman chords) (According to DD in September '85 SPUCK a 'Beatnik-bluegrass with Zen knowledge')
 
For 70 minutes flowed the drugs of time favoured offspring above the head of into their hearts. In front the applause was enthusiastic, now and again a little joke with Paddy and what dances were mostly in. Friendly waves of departure. Prefab Sprout.
 
But then the old discosplendour came back in and the many boxes of equipment and black boxes were moved to the exit by several muscular man. "On leaving the hall tickets lose their validity". I had forgotten to read this on the ticket and had problems with the door idiot of the pub, (God bless the back door). The Mafia had taken themselves in the meanwhile into the blue lounge under the motto "Candlelight against wrinkles".
 
My appearance at this holy organ was only brief, (my chimpanzee had lost my CBS pass at poker 3 days earlier). The clock showed 11.30 and I was still allowed to stand around this ever faster learning disco to let my eyes spread over the plasma until 4 o'clock. About 1.00 the Prefab Sprouts left the blue lounge and the music hall a little full of spirits. (Had they amused themselves with the music mafiosi or what?) 
 
"Hello Martin McAloon, next year we'll play Pretty Woman again in a student club in Durham and yesterday Chelsea beat in the league cup (Hello Marzel!) and that in Liverpool. What? you aren't interested in football? What's more important then football? Music. 
 
IAN DYER TRANSLATES EUROMAG "ANGELDUST" ARTICLE
FROM 1985 WHICH REVIEWS THE GIG AT FRANKFURT