We’ve recently received this email from Ian Fortnam (nme journalist in the 1990’s)

…Aye, it’s been a while. Anyway, you may recall that 22 years ago there was a bit of a mix up in the old NME production department and through a bizarre twist of fate, instead of printing the second live review I did of Blink from The Borderline, they reprinted one that I’d done a couple of months previously at The Powerhaus. Anyway, I was cleaning up the old hard drive this evening and came across the great lost review, and it occurred to me that you may never have seen it, because the NME never got around to righting their wrong. So here it is. Sorry it took 22 years, and some of its reference points look like they came out of the Ark, but it’s been a long time coming…

BLINK LONDON BORDERLINE WA-HEY, BLINKMANIA! Forgotten blobs of Doublemint drop from slackened jaws, as flocks of flint-eyed nubiles unleash their (puppy) lust on pixie-esque Blink-meister Dermot Lambert. The Borderline is heaving. A catalogue of corporate miscalculation and bouncer bloody-mindedness has left a number of unlucky ticket-holders stranded on the pavement, but deep in the bowels of Soho, the designer-lager Ratt-keller is totally rammed with sweating and squealing sardine teens. A year of shrewd tour supports (Carter USM, Crowded House) has finally paid off, and Blink have earned themselves an enviable reputation for cross-generic crowd-pleasing. With their shiny, happy poptones and exuberant collision of blissed-out rhythms and razor keen post-punk passions, they’re this year’s EMF. But the uptilted grins of young London couldn’t give a tuppenny toss for reference points, they only have eyes for Dermot’s dimples. The innocence, angst, perspiration and aggression of tonight’s show is intoxicating. There’s something for everyone – caricature pop for the wide-eyed O-Zone contingent (‘Happy Day’), pounding Lydon-isms for the testosterone T-shirts (‘Ed’s Got A New Car’), and money-in-the-bank floor-fillers for the ecstatic back-slapping suits (‘Cello’). Occasionally, they are sickly, crass and obvious (in the tradition of all genius pop), but instantly redeem themselves with a mind-boggling assortment of free-form motormouth rapping, dynamic hook-lines and roller-coaster riffing – from the exemplary (‘Everything Comes, Everything Goes’), to the irresistible (‘It’s Not My Fault’). The screaming teenys, the caterwauling Irish sneers, sub-dub, dimples and thrash – Oasis maybe the Sex Beatles, but Blink are definitely Public Take That Ltd. Ian Fortnam (4.10.94)

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