The first-night sell-out audience for this dance/music "spectacle" is up for it. They cheer and clap obediently and a small number even strike the freebie lighters handed out as props at the beginning of the show, desperately trying to re-create that stadium feeling circa 1978. But it's useless: no amount of help from the audience can make this production rock.
The company try hard in all the wrong directions. The narrator/lead singer of the band smokes and self-consciously swigs a bottle of scotch as he delivers the gist of a storyline (set around the road-to-stardom hopes of the cast) in a monotone, bored-with-the-world voice.
Neither spoof nor believable, he fails to engage. As the band plays on, the chorus gang of nine dancers schmooze around hopefully in the background, but lack thrust once they get their chance up front: the girls' attempt at blending Irish dancing and groin-pumping groove pushes credibility.
The stars only just manage to convince us that they do, indeed, have something. Karen Pitkethly's efficient flamenco style unfortunately smoulders on a low heat. Canadian Joel Hanna, a slight but powerful pony-tailed Irish dancer with Riverdance credentials, and big, jean-clad tapper Michael Shulster from New York, are best, bringing speed and some clarity into what, at times, is a choreographic jumble. Their potential as a comic pair is tested in a tap-talking duel which is a rare, accomplished highlight and a no-dance encore number proves they can sing as well.
It's not enough, though. Audiences come to gigs like this to be stirred. Whatever the storyline, they want high-octane hoofing in spades, a taste of that gutsy, communally sexy thing which made this kind of dance happen in the first place. This company is so busy telling it their way, they seem to have forgotten why we want to love them. True to their name, for the most part, they are simply showing off.
· Until August 25. Box office: 0131-556 3102.
