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BRITISH SEA POWER plus Special Guests
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Words, words, words. Try to think, to remember, to judge, to write them down. A british sea power. They must be british, should be powerful. Someone I know said they’re good. Somewhere I read they’re better on stage. Night & day, me thinks, about a year ago or less. Didn’t go. Had my reasons. Locals, aye? May be.
Sold out!? What the fuck?! Local heroes? Neither might be. Aright, let ‘em be heroes just for one nite. This night. How much? How many you need lad, just one, one? A couple. Gimme a sec. Hey, how much, first thing tell me how much. Twenty a piece. Fuck it, too much, better do somethin else. Go for drinks. Yeah, go for drinks. Tickets, tickets! Buy or sell! Spare ones mate! Right, I need two. OK, Skinner, skinner! I’ve only got 30. No man, no, 40 quid that is. Wait a minute. Give us 35. Here’s 30. Done. Got’em. Nice’un. Sorted. Shit, are they good ones? Where’s that man? Gone. Anxiety. Are we fucked? Ripped off? Go straight in. Now, we’re in. Relieved. Kill all thirsty fucks… NOW.
Support acts: doomed to live in a half-empty-venue world. A bro says gothic died in the 80’s. Suppose it did. Is there still room for it? Yes, when it sells out.
Can you remember? What? Name of the first support band. No. it’s their fault I don’t. Made me say: just another band. Meanwhile, to the bar, to the bog, occasionally. Initial letter T. No more than that. Started promising, ended coldplaying. 3-chords-song bands. Nothing wrong with that. Know what I mean. No? Remember that: Here’s a chord. There’s another one. Hey, a third one too. Now form a band OR “now that you’re comfortable with E you can move to A, so you can eventually play your first song”. They might be giants. Sort your head out geezer. Say no more crap boy. Talk sense. Ran out of Worthington’s. Bloody imported lager. Mars Volta are comin to town. Can’t miss that. Said their thankyous, buggered off.
One man show. Glide or glide sonic. Electronic equipment. The gear of the devil. He was havin his drink just next to us minutes ago. Weird haircut mid-aged block. Is that him? All the hallos and goodbuys we could’ve exchanged… now him on stage to prove us bland. And he’s mighty too. He can speak many dialects of music. His accent’s drippin breakbeats, fine melodies, electr(on)ic sublime. A mayhem of rhythms and a quitar to be violated. That’s all though. Time’s up, finish off. Oh, before you go, just to say, the projection was quite unfortunate, quite unfortunate. A bit on the ceiling, most on the wall, yet spooky, fits your thingy, u know, your style –whatever that is- evil, evil. Stand up, your hands together for the ex-drummer of Echo & the Bunnymen. No more Bunnyman.
Green, the stage goes green. What birds are them? That’s a seagull. Seagull? No, no, a heron. And that’s a kestrel. Yeah, a kestrel and an owl. A heron, a kestrel, and an owl. Branches. Vucolic, u know. Back to nature. Jolly jolly good. A cup o tea maybe? Bitter for me please. Aright, main act, now play some music lads, com’on. Adrift. Carried away. By the excited crowd. What d’you think? Better go back. Solidarity: short suffers limited view. Can’t see the fuckin stage. Damn them high heels, by the way. Hail the groupies, hail the ladies’man. Who else is here? Out of the way, you. A Manchester, still haunted by Curtis and Morrissey, dances on its ashes. They just adore the gothic when in a punky mood. The punk rock when in a gothic mood. A year ago, Interpol’s gig. Lads shoutin: play the angels, this is Manchester. I’ll play you some Interpol when at home. They’re fine. But this? No, it’s not. What d’you reck? asks youngster in the bog. Poppy. What? Too poppy I say. Don’t think so, blah blah blah. Ah, you might be right, what do I know, and I Wash My Hands. Leave the place at once. Leave home. Leaves are fake. Is the grill on? Yep. Let me see. For fuck sake, don’t touch that. And then he/she did. Bollocks, that’s a dream I saw, or…
Hel Walker
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