Critique of Spice Girls as hurtful as a bubble bath

Geoff Carter

Thursday, Aug. 20, 1998 | 10:49 a.m.

They've got me dead to rights. I'll admit it. Last night at the Thomas and Mack, the Spice Girls proved two points beyond the realm of deniability: they do, in fact, have title to a sizeable chunk of the globe, and an ocean of screaming eight-year-old girls is a thing to be feared, yes indeed.

But that's neither here nor there. Right about now, you probably have some questions you would like answered, and since I've been to the mountain and you haven't, please allow me to answer them.

Yes, the Spice Girls - Scary Spice (Melanie Brown), Posh Spice (Victoria Adams), Baby Spice (Emma Bunton), and Sporty Spice (Melanie Chisholm) - are a swell bunch of lookers, even up close. They are walking, talking testaments to the power of skin cream, cosmetics, the Stairmaster and their central tenet, positive thinking. (So strong were their "Girl Power" histrionics that at least once during the show I entertained the notion of calling a surgeon and changing teams.) The Girls changed clothes perhaps a dozen times, and looked good in everything they threw on.

Yes, the Spice Girls are at best mediocre performers. They rely heavily on prerecorded vocals - the choruses are note-perfect, with departed Ginger Spice (Geri Halliwell) curiously present in the mix. Their choreography is slipshod at best, reaching an early low halfway through the first number, "If You Can't Dance." (They can't.)

And yes, if the Spice Girls annoy you from a distance, they'll annoy you twice as much in the flesh. Their songs are dated pop-disco pastiches with tinny melodies and awful lyrics, only memorable in the way commercial jingles are memorable. (Tellingly, during "Move Over," the giant screen behind the Girls played scenes from their "Generation Next" Pepsi-Cola ad. The ditty worked - at intermission I bought a large Pepsi at their behest, and drank the sucker in two breathless gulps.)

But they know all that, and that's what makes them worthwhile. The Girls are built entirely of self-parody, making any genuine critical lashing they might receive as hurtful as a bubble bath. Their success is a thrill ride and the Girls know it; it is likely the exact reason they are loath to fully develop their talents. Talent might lead to self-satisfaction, then to self-importance, on to the inevitable sense of entitlement and finally, the end of the greatest marketing weapon of modern times.

It is this truism that, once accepted, allows you to enjoy the Spice Girls despite the steady prepubescent din (it was as shrill as a marching band made up only of pennywhistles playing the same note, but I become accustomed to it rather quickly). Their live show is a masterwork of fluff; a wall composed of marshmallow, perhaps, but nonetheless a wall. Through multiple costume changes (I stopped counting), true show-womanship (the Girls' stage show is more kinetic than most Vegas productions), sheer personality and shrewd use of vocal enhancement (you gotta love those phantom choruses), the Spice Girls have a fair amount of entertainment stuffed in those jumpsuits.

And so it went. I could slag them off, but the Spice Girls have already done so and their keen sense of humor rivals anything I can dish out. "Wannabe" made the crowd shout with glee, "2 Become 1" had them ruefully waving their glowsticks and canny covers of "Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves" and "Baby Where Did Our Love Go?" whipped the parents of those children into a frenzy.

And 50 million eight-year-olds can't be wrong. It's a Spice World, after all.