He's not a new romantic, he's a "neo-Regency face warrior". Gary Le Strange is here to tell us why: "Fashion, not bombs, is my weapon." His hair is a shock of peroxide, his face a kiddies' colouring book of blusher and glitter, beauty spots and geometric shapes. He's promoting his new album, Polaroid Suitcase, which recalls 1980s synth-pop in all its mechanical, materialist vainglory.
There's clearly room for a spoof on the new romantics; Gary Numan and co weren't known for their irony. But Le Strange has work to do yet. His between-song chat, about his estrangement from former collaborator Philip, is just that: chat, and flat chat at that. Likewise, he performs his songs with more gumption than art. There's a lot of bouncing about, very funny faux-demented stares, and liberal deployment of that soulless howl. But there's not much subtlety.
There's pleasure to be had, though, in stumbling upon one of the fringe's unformed mavericks. Le Strange frequently nails the leaden pretentiousness of Thatcher-era pop. He's forever harping on technology ("Is my toaster sentient? Is my oven epileptic?") and dehumanisation ("Waiting in a darkened underpass/With a robot made of glass"). He does a fine Adam Ant take-off, about Cinderella rather than Prince Charming. And Spandau Ballet's Gold becomes Grey, which Gary adores - "although silver's OK/But that's still grey/In a shiny sort of way." Le Strange is out there, pogoing perilously close to failure. But as the great man said, ridicule is nothing to be scared of.
· Until August 24. Box office: 0870 745 3083.
