Westlife

Ah, the solace of hysteria. A wall of shrill screeching began before the Point opened its doors, and rang out into shared tinnitus. This was a female rite of passage and I was a terrified tourist.

Westlife are unstoppable. Nothing, not even foot-and-mouth warnings could halt the group's battle for the hearts and lungs of the nation's daughters. On the first performance of an 11-night sold-out stretch, the least intimidating of all non-threatening boybands cranked the hype and decibels into overdrive. Steadily provoked by early video glimpses of the pallid quintet, the audience almost shattered when a brooding Matrix-meets-2001 sequence heralded the pop-icon's arrival.

Appearing atop ice-white towers, the boys abseiled into Dreams Come True, and threw some pretty meagre dance moves - sidestep, twirl, sidestep, twirl. Westlife assured us they wouldn't fall into the old cliches of boybandom. No sitting on stools and dressing all in black, promised Nicky. So, instead, they sat on platforms and dressed all in white.

A slew of hits came thick and fast: If I Let You Go, Swear It Again, Seasons in the Sun, My Love - each delivered with the same soaring slushiness that Westlife excel at. Meanwhile, a faceless backing band and a line of dancing girls cropped up now and then for show. Combined with video landscapes, showers of sparks and cascading dry ice, they provided a lavish spectacle to cover frequent costume changes.

Despite bland songs and tired sequences (a dance routine with chairs, an oldies medley), it really was (and will be for the rest of their dates) a good show. Revolving sets and treadmill saunters are smoothly executed, as earnest ballads of relentless heartbreak stoke the passions. If only an airborne Flying Without Wings encore could avoid its meat-hook imagery, the fantasy would be untainted.