A cover from Rick Astley? Shocking. The Never Gonna Give You Up singer has depended on these collaborations with Blossoms and cover sets because it is now the only branch left to his chirpy, upbeat image. His most recent release, Are We There Yet?, collapsed and must have been the last straw for studio originals. From The Smiths to Harry Styles, and now Sam Fender, the continued desire for some space in the public eye from Astley leads him to pointless covers paying tribute to contemporary pop-adjacent acts. Taking to the TRNSMT stage and performing so many covers even his studio works have to feature cuts from Lizzo and The Rolling Stones, Astley has evaluated what works for him as an artist. He is closer to a novelty act. A great shame given his talents, but his cover of Seventeen Going Under is what it is.
And what it is, is fine. Astley has capitalised on anything from ABBA reunions to lockdown boredom as a way of showing off these cover songs. Placid they may be, they also have a sick underbelly to them, a reason to keep them ticking away as viral sensation replaces any longevity a chart-topping album could. This is Astley playing the game, and who can blame him? Though his cover of the Fender classic is shallow. It is hard to see this cover of Seventeen Going Under as much more than playing the game. Accepting a new role after a set of new originals did little. Never Gonna Give You Up remains the perception of his peak, but covers of Good Time and Seven Nation Army are not going to change that. Having fun takes precedence, rightly or wrongly.
Not to sound too stuffy, but a song relating to the harsh upbringing of life in North Shields is not quite fodder for a set from a man whose voice is still in pristine condition. Astley adds little, if anything, to this and not even the excuse of playing up a song he is moved by can cover the cracks of this one. A soft and instrumentally undefined cover is the worst of all because it assumes the popularity of the song is enough to carry it. In this instance, it is. Just look at the crowd. But Astley, who fears the word “fucking” before “joker” and can barely contain his giddy giggling, is missing the point of the song. This is no heartfelt exploration of what Seventeen Going Under can offer an audience or artist but a sloppy interpretation for the sake of riding popular coattails.
Technically fine work, from a decent singing voice to notes played in the right order, but Astley lacks the punch and power needed to carry a song of this emotional scope. This is not through lack of trying but because the point here is not to adapt the complexity of the song but to bring the popularity of the song to a place of generalised understanding. The same lack of depth felt by posers in Newcastle United t-shirts can be heard on the stage in a low drawl from Astley. Nobody can blame the man for continuing the relevancy tour by covering songs of interest, but the thin veneer of these lacklustre tribute shows fronted by recognisable faces, backed by talented musicians, are lazy. A barebones experience of a Fender classic.
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