Party on: Desperately seeking a celebrity

ALL THAT GLISTERS is not gold. Unless you're a PR, in which case it's platinum. This has been cause of no small amusement for me these last few weeks, with the PR bull taking on epic proportions. There was a new club launch, which I was told, excitedly, would be "very exclusive, guests only and celebs". What they actually meant was truckloads of media bores (which I suppose includes me) standing about, peering at each other through their glasses and bounding round the dance floor in scenes reminiscent of the school disco. Then, last week, there was the launch of a "funky" new hairdressing salon in Soho, where the PR girl sounded like she'd she'd sacrifice her own mum if Robbie Williams and his little All Star (now ex-Star) didn't show up.

Now this sort of gutter PR tactic might work on the staff of Mizz or Bliss, but it doesn't work on me. It was just lucky that I happened to be in the area at the time. And of course, not even the B-list stalwarts in sight on the night, just a load of Soho victims, a couple of drag queens (it's sooo over, girls) and a selection of warm alcopops, since the champers had scandalously dried up an hour earlier.

This is what the cult of celebrity has reduced us to; scrambling around London looking for a photo opportunity; and judging from my experience in London this week, sometimes it's better not to bother. I'm talking about la Minogue. Being a closet Kylie fan from way back (influenced by my deliberately tasteless best friend who, needless to say, now fancies Gary Barlow), I thought Kylie's London concert at the Shepherd's Bush Empire earlier this week would be the Ozzie equivalent to a Madonna show. You know, sequins, dance-routines, live sex, that sort of thing.

But, alas, times have changed since the days of Confide in Me. Our Kylie's been writing her own songs and, aside from a few promising dance tracks (when they're remixed, anyway), she's actually bit of an old INXS rocker at heart. The Empire's a small, intimate venue, and it should have pumped, and in fairness there were some hardcore Minoguettes down at stage level. But up on the first floor, again with bored/boring journos (have to escape, have to escape), who looked like they were settling in for Mozart's Requiem, it was just frustrating. But then, I guess there's only so much razzle you can put into Better The Devil You Know anyway. In the end, the best song of the evening turned out to be a cabaret cover of Abba's Dancing Queen (which is impossible to cock up, anyway) with Kylie's two camp male dancers stealing the show. You have to admit, there's something not quite right there.

There is, on the other hand something very right about the Robert Capa exhibition, which has just opened at the Photographer's Gallery (Great Newport St, WC2, runs until 12 September). An icon during the Forties and early Fifties, Capa was as hard-drinking a hellraiser as he was respected war photographer, with a host of celeb friends and movie star looks to boot.

But he was also incredibly serious about his photojournalism, famously quipping of war shots that, "if your pictures aren't good enough, you're not close enough." Given he stepped on a land mine and blew himself up in 1954, he'd probably want to change his mind on that one. But still, in 1938, at the age of 25, Picture Post magazine hailed him as "The Greatest War Photographer in the World" and this show captures many of those images. In his "off" hours, Capa would take intimate photos of his friends and social circle - candid images of Henri Matisse sitting in bed in his PJs, Humprey Bogart and John Huston soaking wet watching the Queen's coronation in 1953, and relaxed portraits of William Faulker, Picasso and Ernest Hemingway; all of which pepper the show. Honestly, I can't say enough about this exhibition. Hail the Photographer's Gallery, love the space, Capa's ace.

While we're on iconography, it's worth checking out the Diesel Retrospective/Futurespective exhibition, running at Mission (45 Hereford Rd, W2, until August 9). It's a grand show, full of kitsch vintage clocks, swing tags, clothing, film posters, and assorted stuff over two floors. Anyone who gets off on Diesel ads will love this, especially since retro is catered to so well on the lower floor with 70s wife-swappers favourite Twister at your disposal. It's a shame, in fact, that the New York Ballet Stars can't get Twisted while they're over here.

Saw them performing their largely Balanchine-choreographed dance at the Queen Elizabeth Hall, South Bank, and flippin' 'eck, I've never seen anything like them; these guys are phenomenal. I'm not big on ballet, as my preoccupation with men in tights during last month's Romeo & Juliet suggested, but this mixture of modern, angular, jazzy dance with the more traditional balletic style was fantastic; two hours watching men with buns of steel (there I go again) and a clutch of energetic, athletic female dancers giving it the Fame treatment. The auditorium was rammed full and the extravagant whooping (even at the fourth curtain call!) suggested more than a couple American fans in the audience. But don't let that put you off; it's the last day today, so give it a go.

Finally, back to star quality, which is, after all, my raison d'etre at Party On, and a word should be put in for Kevin Spacey, who's just finished his run at the Almeida's The Iceman Cometh. I am trailing somewhat behind the rest of London on this one (well, I can't get to everything first!) but I am pleased to announce that our Kev surpassed all my expectations on the night. Sexy, slimy, desperate and - at last! - I go to an event where the celebrity is not only guaranteed, but actually shows up. And Spacey, I'm pleased to say, is one star who doesn't need an oily tenticles of PR machine wrapped around him. He can spin his own magic. Thank God for small mercies.