Elliott Minor
With the crowd gasping in anticipation, Elliot Minor – Fisher Price Punks of the pop-classical persuasion – finally giggle their way onto stage, thereby putting to an end to 45 minutes of MCR sing-a-longs and life and death battles for mirror-space.
A starlight of camera phones is raised aloft and the crowd begins to clap in time to music that can most generously be described as impossibly congenial. Really, tonight is every bit as confounding an experience as you would expect from five ex-choir-boys eager to assert their solemn debt to rock-trailblazers Busted. We shit you not.
Between songs, all manner of zany tomfoolery is afoot. On one occasion the blonde one even pours water on the other one’s shoe, the git! Admittedly, the music is accomplished, enough almost to make you forget that, ultimately, you are watching five airbrushed mannequins attempting to cultivate the same icky, co-dependent relationship a boy band has with its fan base. John Calvert
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