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Music

We Saw This: An Evening with Molly Ringwald

Last Saturday the Melbourne Recital Centre hosted an Evening with Molly Ringwald. Incredibly when the queen of puberty walked on stage she didn’t buy a bra, get her period or stare open mouthed at the cutest boy in school.

Last Saturday the Melbourne Recital Centre hosted an Evening with Molly Ringwald. Incredibly, when the queen of puberty walked on stage, she didn’t buy a bra, get her period or stare open mouthed at the cutest boy in school. Rather, she spent two hours singing songs from the Great American Songbook to people who probably know your folks. I’m not sure what I expected when I saw the poster, but somewhere in between breaking Duckie’s heart and having a couple of babies, Molly Ringwald learned to sing.

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Turning up at the MRC I was shocked by the sea of wire rimmed glasses and tidy grey haircuts. I legitimately expected to see a room of my sister’s friends circa 1986, all mousse treated hair and handmade plasticine earrings. Although her fans might have aged, incredibly, Molly hasn’t. When she walked out on stage, in front of her three piece jazz band, there was an audible gasp at how much she looked the same as she did in her John Hughes heyday.

The gasp was followed by the creaking of seats as middle aged men looked at Molly, then their wives, then back at Molly, then disappointed at the comparison. The fact she managed to still have a slammin bod without that starving Desperate Housewives vibe was impressive no matter your age group.

For the next two hours she sang a bunch of songs that everyone but me seemed to recognise. Despite a bit of a high grade karaoke start, Molly Ringwald is a pretty solid singer. Sure if she didn’t have her own lunchbox in the 80s the MRC probably wouldn’t have booked her. But as far as “slashies” go—this singer slash actress was pretty decent.

But obviously I didn’t spend 20 minutes on a tram on a Friday night to hear her hit all the big notes of “On the Street Where you Live.” For all the polished banter and unmoving hair, there is no avoiding that Molly Ringwald is a grade A dork. No matter of how good her arms look, she can't obscur the dork glory I’ve worshipped since puberty, it was on full display.

Every time she slipped off a note and a bit of her “I hate my life” California accent slipped through, I could almost convince myself Sam Baker was scat singing to me. Also, Molly Ringwald might be the worst dancer in the world. When she first walked out in a black floor length gown I thought maybe I wasn’t going to get the full teen dream experience, but as soon as she moved a limb it was like watching your favourite turkey at a hoedown.

By the end of it, any reservations I had about watching the embodiment of my own candy coloured teen angst sing show tunes were blown away. I was actually pretty sad when it was almost 9.30 and I realised she probably had to go to bed soon. But just when I thought watching your childhood hero sing songs and talk about how much her husband loved Candy Crush couldn’t get any better she did something baller. She sang Simple Minds' 1985 classic “Don’t You Forget About Me,” with the full backing of a jazz band. Mind blown.

Follow Wendy on Twitter: @WendyWends