O.C. POP MUSIC REVIEW : Crooner Astley Gets No Respect, Deserves None

Mojo Nixon dubs him a “pantywaist” (in the memorably raucous teen-pop put-down song “Debbie Gibson Is Pregnant With My Two-Headed Love Child”). Elvis Costello slagged him off in passing during a recent concert without even bothering to get his name right.

With all these forces of hipness aligned against him, perhaps Rick Astley deserved some of the sympathy due an underdog as he walked on stage Friday night at the Pacific Amphitheatre in Costa Mesa.

But in a tedious, sometimes oafish performance, the British R&B; dance-pop crooner squandered any immunity from ridicule.

In lieu of projecting an engaging personality on his first U.S. tour, Astley offered gimmicks. There was a vertical, gray-slab stage set that made it appear as if his 10-member backing band were playing on the steps of a bank. There was a large, rectangular screen for supposedly comic visuals and optical illusions. There were six changes of apparel on the suave star’s part.

Worst of all, there were bad joke routines and bits of pantomime in which Astley seemed intent on making a buffoon of himself. The nadir came during an awful, unending version of “Take Me to Your Heart,” during which Astley tried to get laughs by chasing the bum of one of his female backup singers. You would think that a would-be soul man would try to emulate Ben E. King instead of Benny Hill.

Although Astley had some decent musicians with him, his music settled into a bland, slick, middling dance groove. It was so lifeless at times that one wondered when Astley was going to trade in his ever-changing jackets for a white medic’s coat and check his band for a pulse.

Interruptions for bad gags and Astley’s exits to the haberdashery destroyed any pacing and momentum. And at times when he should have been heating up the show with R&B; ardor and energy, this non-dancer was moving at a walk, playing Frank Sinatra when the moment called for James Brown.

Astley proved himself to be a competent but utterly unadventurous and unimaginative singer. He managed a few moderately emotive moments (the best being the ballad finale, “Hold Me in Your Arms”) by resorting to a bit of extra baritone husk. Astley got the notes right--but for effective R&B;, they have to be both right and righteous.

Mojo and Elvis can mock on.

Martika, who opened, may be somewhat slight of voice, especially on the high notes, but she made up for it with energy and a fetching personality.

The 20-year-old from the San Gabriel Valley seems to be staking out a dance-pop persona somewhere between Madonna’s showy vamp and the girl-next-door sweetness of Tiffany and Debbie Gibson. She played her part in lively fashion, with lots of aerobic whirling and bouncing that seemed choreographed without appearing too slickly calculated.

With a punchy, five-piece band behind her and an assortment of catchy melodies to sing (including her No. 1 hit ballad, “Toy Soldiers” and a potent version of Carole King’s “I Feel the Earth Move”), Martika turned in an enjoyable set.