Tag Archives: live music in Dubai

If you have the opportunity to see Texas live, don’t miss them!

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Scottish rock band Texas performed at Irish Village in Dubai this weekend, and it was a night to remember. Fans turned up in droves to enjoy the group’s signature sound and high-energy performance – and what better venue than the Tennis Stadium, with food (including pork!) next door, drink, the open air (albeit on the warm side, now summer is rolling in) and a clear view of the stage.

By big concert standards, gobby Glaswegian Sharleen Spiteri’s performance at the tennis stadium on Friday night was an ‘intimate’ gig.

A tennis stadium is, after all, designed so that every single seat can see that little yellow ball in the middle of the court, meaning every viewpoint is perfect.

Lead singer and guitarist Spiteri was a force to be reckoned with, belting out powerful vocals that resonated throughout the venue. She engaged the audience, encouraging them to sing along and clap to the beat. At times admonishing fans with a cheeky comment or two. 

“Took you a while to get going, but you’re getting there,” she chirped in reference to an earlier observation about the crowd being an older bunch.

“Look, there are a few younger faces in the audience,” she said after surveying the front rows of eager fans. “Oh, but not you,” she quickly followed this up with, and I squirmed for whoever she was pointing out.

But slapstick suited Spiteri. She had comic timing, suggesting she’d be equally at home at a stand-up comedy night. 

The band played a mix of old and new songs, and each one was met with thunderous applause. It’s not often that bands start their set with their most popular song, yet Texas chose to do just that. ‘I Don’t Want A Lover’, the lead track from their 1989 debut album Southside, served as a fitting opening number and set the tone for the remainder of the concert.

After that, highlights included ‘Say What You Want’, ‘Summer Sun’, ‘Halo’, ‘Once In A Lifetime’ and ‘Mr Haze’, all sounding timeless and Spiteri’s voice as sonorous and magnificent as when she first began her career three decades ago.

The band’s rendition of ‘Black Eyed Boy’ had everyone dancing, and mixed among the hits were some absolute gems from their most recent album, Hi, which I loved as much as the ‘oldies’.

Spiteri wasn’t afraid to be openly honest with the audience too. “It was raining in London when I left,” she said. ‘That’s why I’m wearing this suit – and now I’m just SO damn HOT.” With all her bouncing around stage, I wasn’t surprised. “My thermostat is completely shot,” she laughed (she’s 55, with a 21-year-old daughter, Misty Kyd, who she joked would #cancel the men chanting for her to “Get it [the suit] off.”

After thirty years of producing fantastic music, Texas continues to perform with a genuine sense of merriment – and, thanks to spirited Spiteri, with a remarkable connection to the audience, who went home buzzing.  

Fatboy Slim in Dubai: The mid-life rave

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It was smilies all round at the Media City megaparty

I’ve always said Dubai is the best place in the world to see live music – with good weather (almost) guaranteed, a venue right outside my office, and, at this particular amphitheatre, my work carpark – meaning I can make the quickest get-away in the Middle East when it’s all over. 

The fantastic Eminem concert the previous week might not have lived up to these expectations organisation-wise – and I won’t be hurrying back to the Du Arena any time soon – but Party in the Park at the Media City amphitheatre promised to be a hassle-free way to see Fatboy Slim in Dubai, and without that nail-biting, stomach-in-your-mouth drive to Abu Dhabi.

I’m so glad I went! There were numerous performances – from Lighthouse Family and Richard Ashcroft among others – as the lead-up to the headline act, Fatboy Slim. Remember him? He’s the superstar DJ, producer and hit-maker (aka Norman Cook) who’s been persuading people to dance their socks off for decades. 

My ticket for Fatboy Slim in Dubai was for entry after 9pm, which meant by the time I arrived many hard-core concert-goers had been drinking for hours. On my own, with a very vague arrangement to meet a friend of a friend, I was immediately apprehended by Mr Off-his-Head from Ireland.

“Where you from?” he asked. His words were slurred, but the Irish lilt was unmistakable.

“Erm, England,” I replied cautiously. I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea, but I also didn’t want to be rude – and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tiny bit pleased I was still chat-up-able!

Several minutes of drunken lechery later, I gave up being polite and, after he merrily told me how much he hated the English, I attempted to shake him off. I strode away but he followed, stumbling along as though the ground was the deck of a storm-tossed boat.

“St-st-stop,” he called as he lurched forwards. “Get lost!” I wanted to reply, but again, politeness, won the day. He caught up with me, and when he reached me, the rank odour of his booze breath was even more pungent than before.

“I lurve you,” he spluttered and threw his arms around me like I was the last life jacket on a sinking ship. “No I do, I lurve yoouu!”

“You don’t even know me,” I retorted and fled!

At 10pm (and that little incident forgotten), Fatboy Slim appeared on set to rapturous applause and cheering. “I’m in Dubai,” he roared as fire jets let off perfectly timed, giant flames at the front of the stage. “Eat, Sleep, Rave, Repeat” spurred the crowd on even more and, within no time, 56-year-old Norman had transformed the amphitheatre into a thumping rave.

Still full of energy, Norman pumped his fists, mimed along to the songs, and kept his audience mesmerised. I was loving it – the half carnival, half superclub experience, the stomping beats, the feeling I was at a mid-life rave, the hands-in-the-air moments, the incredible lighting, imagery, video and graphics. Slim, a seasoned performer and the lip-syncing life of the party, was giving us his best and not about to go gently into the night. It was AWESOME, almost like being transported into another realm!

Until the rave reality check happened. 

Son1, aka The Teenager, called my phone. “Mom, WHERE are you?” he demanded. “I need to borrow some money.”

Lady Gaga toes the line in Dubai

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Lady Gaga arrives in Dubai (pic courtesy of Time Out Dubai)

Lady Gaga arrives in Dubai (pic from Time Out Dubai)

A quick confession – I’m a Lady Gaga fan. There I’ve said it.

So when I heard she was coming to Dubai, for her first ever concert in the Middle East, I told DH we were going.

We don’t always have a lot of luck with this – the last concert we were meant to attend together (Eric Clapton – my taste is eclectic!) was looking good, until DH suddenly got called out to New Zealand at the last minute.

This time, it was all systems go, and we made our way to the venue, the impressive Meydan racecourse – timing our entrance so as to minimise standing around melting in the energy-sapping, hair-curling humidity, but not wanting to miss the fanfare of her arrival on stage.

Well, let’s just say we could have gone out for a four-course meal, thrown a few shapes on the dancefloor, and still made it on time.

9pm came and went. 9.30pm. 10pm (Yawn). 10.15pm. And on a school night, too. By 10.25pm, with beads of sweat making a trickly descent down my forehead, I was getting a bit fed up.

“It wasn’t like this at Jesus Jones,” said DH (he doesn’t get out to many concerts!) I had to laugh, because Jesus Jones must have been performing in the late 80s.

“Well, it is Lady Gaga,” I reminded him. “She can get away with being a diva.”

(And requesting black satin drapes in her hotel room, silver satin sheets, an oxygen tank and peanut butter containing flax seed and no more than 4g of sugar, if the Daily Mirror is to be believed.)

Gaga's wardrobe contains latex, sequins and tentacles (pic from Emirates Woman)

Gaga’s wardrobe contains latex, sequins and tentacles (pic from Emirates Woman)

But you know what, when she did finally come on (at 10.30pm), wearing suitably eccentric golden wings, she was adorable and instantly forgivable. “Marhaba Dubai. My name is Lady Gaga,” she called out, kicking off an hour and a half of high-energy, crowd-pleasing hits, bizarre wig and costume changes, and plenty of emotionally charged audience interaction.

“They used to tell me I was crazy, I would never come to the Middle East … I have waited so long…begged,” she shakily told her legions of fans, one of whom held a sign picturing Gaga in a burqa with the words, “My mum made you a burqa – will you wear it?”

She seemed ridiculously pleased to have made it to the Arab world – repeating messages of gratitude, acceptance and tolerance – and stuck to her word to tone down her performance to respect the UAE’s conservative sensibilities. “I want to speak Arabic so badly but I’m terrible at it,” the 28-year-old pop star giggled, before stammering her way through the Arabic for: “Hello, how are you my little monsters?”

There was no nudity, no on-stage costume changes or pole dancing; instead she dazzled with her artistry, panache, glitz, great voice – yes, she can sing – and all-round randomness (her most “way out” costume being a cross between a dalmatian and an octopus).

Shooting laser beams, a colourful and equally eccentric dance troupe, and an extravagant stage added to the mélange. Then all too soon, it was over. Her last song – Swine, complete with pig masks – was perhaps not the best-advised. But she followed this with an enchanting encore – my favourite song, Gypsy, belted out under the stars and bringing an unforgettable show to a climactic end. Lady Gaga beamed and took a final bow, leaving us with one more Arabic word: “Shukran… I love you.”

Come again soon Lady Gaga! It was our pleasure.

A walk down bad-fashion memory lane

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You’re going to think I’m a bit of a raver (which I’m not really), but at the weekend I went to my second concert in just over a week – this time, rewinding back yet another decade, all the way to the ’80s.

If you don’t remember the ’80s – and plenty of the girls at work claim not to (“It’s not my era,” said one PA, clearly born in about 1992) – it was a time when we thought stone-washed jeans, leg warmers, big hair and shoulder pads were seriously cool. I’m sure I recall sitting in the bath with my drainpipe jeans on, convinced this would shrink them even more.

Ah, remember the look? The pink-mesh leggings, pearl beads and fingerless gloves. Or best forgotten?

Ah, remember the look? The pink-mesh leggings, pearl beads and fingerless gloves. Or best forgotten?

But, among my friends and work colleagues, there are also those who, like me, remember the decade very well – and so we found ourselves hunting around online for discounted tickets to the ’80s concert (at 295dhs – £53 – a pop for the ‘pleb pit’, and 495dhs – £89 – for the golden circle, entrance wasn’t cheap).

After The Stone Roses the week before, it was a hard act to follow. The Stone Roses were proper Manchester cool, and you just couldn’t help but rock out under the stars. The 80s festival – featuring T’Pau, Heaven 17, ABC, Howard Jones and, ahem, Rick Astley – had a totally different, retro feel and, yes, there were people dressed up, in pink wigs and bad clothes.

DH dropped me off (flying later that night gave him a good excuse), and feeling a bit like the time traveller’s wife, I prepared myself to make the leap from the indie-filled ‘90s to the naff ‘80s.

I wasn’t disappointed. Years ago, I went to see T’Pau at Hammersmith arena and Carol Decker came on, coughed, and croaked: “I’ve got laryngitis, I can’t sing!’ We were all left in stunned silence as she ran off the stage and the lights came on (she did reschedule). This time around, she was a sweetheart, with a powerful voice that hit the high notes.

“Who lives in Dubai and who’s on holiday?” the flame-haired singer asked the audience (I swear she could pass for Sarah Ferguson). The response overwhelmingly suggested we were a bunch of (40-something) expats on the razzle. “No point plugging my UK dates then,” she conceded, before launching into China in Your Hand.

But the highlights for me – together with the dodgy lyrics on the ‘Lucky Voice’ karaoke we had to do – were Heaven 17’s rendition of Temptation and synth-pop trailblazer Howard Jones. In command of the keyboards (with an Apple Mac laptop perched on top, in case you’d forgotten what decade we were actually in), his songs really resonated.

So I did take a photo of Rick, before slinking out to the taxi tank

So I did take a photo of Rick, before slinking out to the taxi rank. “Give me a wiggle to remember on the plane home,” he said, cheekily. Moi?!!

I have to admit, I was never a Rick Astley fan, and couldn’t quite understand why everyone was so excited when he came on stage, with the words: “Get down, housewives!” I actually had to leave at this point, as once again DH was departing just after midnight, but I could see that you’d be forgiven for thinking he was singing directly at you.

And that, I realised, is the beauty of seeing bands in Dubai. It’s all on a much smaller-scale than in the UK or US, and so you feel very close to the stage and the acts themselves. Better still, you might even find yourself standing next to your favourite singer.

At The Stone Roses, Liam Gallagher, of Beady Eye, and Chris Martin, from Cold Play, were watching. A star-struck friend, just inches away from their VIP box, told me people were trying to take photos, and the singers’ kids helped by grabbing fans’ phones and taking close-ups of their dads.

Beat that, London’s O2 Arena, for letting the audience get up close and personal with super-star rockers. And as for the Dubai Rewind, if the number of teased-out mullets and muffin tops squeezed into spandex mini skirts was anything to go by, the night was a huge – and hilarious – success.

You SHALL go to the concert!

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I’ve just realised that this is all going to sound rather Cinderella-esque (minus the ugly sisters and the chimney sweeping), so bear with me!

Yesterday, the stars must have aligned as my day turned into such a treat – the cherry on top being spending the evening at the Media City amphitheatre watching one of my all-time favourite bands – indie rockers The Stone Roses – belt out their legendary tunes under the star-lit sky.

So, there I was, mopping the floor (okay, I wasn’t. I was doing some freelance work for a magazine), when the project came to a natural end and I was able to leave at lunchtime.

Remember this? Never thought I'd see them outside work, in Dubai!

Remember this? Never thought I’d see them outside work, in Dubai!

I skipped off to the mall, with five hours to spare! FIVE hours to enjoy being loose in the mall (with no children barnacled to my leg!). An almost overwhelming amount of time for a usually harried mum and as good as a mini spa break.

I had my hair done, and bought some shoes (not glass slippers, but some flats so I could jettison the work heels and stand all evening in comfort). Later, I picked up my ticket, and edged through the throngs of concert-goers to join my friend close to the stage.

The Stone Roses were amazing. It was honestly like stepping straight back into Uni. And, because this was a Dubai audience of, I’d say, mainly British expats of a certain age, the whole Manchester scene felt a long, long way away. There was no pushing or shoving; no peeing in the bushes, no drugs (just a queue 100-deep for Vodka Red Bull). The atmosphere was electric.

Now, I know you’re wondering at what point did I turn into a pumpkin. Well, I had to be home by midnight. I really did. My DH was leaving for London, so I had to be back on time – and I was – aided by my carriage still being parked in our work car park right next to the venue.

The fastest, jammiest get-away in the Middle East, I tell you.

If the children had let me sleep in this morning, my throw-back-to-student-hood would have been complete. But that would have been asking far too much, wouldn’t it?