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DO MAKE SAY THINK, BERG SANS NIPPLE (óôï Nottingham)
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It’s quite astonishing, the way we react I mean, it’s the same you know. We just shut the eyes simultaneously, we follow the same path and take off. How could we possibly let a chance like this go wasted? No chance hel. So we’re off, off to Nottingham, the heart of Inglaterra, Sherwood etc.
Order tickets to be on the safe side. Book a b&b. Coach timetables. Purchase, purchase. Do it in advance. Make it work for you. Say something goes wrong. Think of gateaways.
It was October, third year of a still fairly new millennium. Winter was creeping unstopped. The cold morning. The urban rush of busy weekdays. And then, the landscapes. A very long dale. Great outdoors, fresh air. The colours of autumn. Shades of red, yellow. The populated areas know nothing about it. One needs to find a rescue room. Shortly.
People look nice here. Where’s the dodgy muthafucka? The pretentious gangsta? Oh, by the way, it’s Them on stage. Soundcheckin. Tickets never arrived. So it’s one of those transaction-reference-no.-required case. Fuck it, sort this later. Now all seems so unreal. The view outta the window, the splitofthebed, the intercourse among reason, people and their reasons, the surnameless objects…
Heavy metal is big around here. Pubs play rock music. Of course still sell food and I’m starving. A tramp. Always feel guilty even looking at them. He’s curved. A he or a she? It’s him. Helpless. Freezing his bollocks. OK, get on with it, it’s nearly time. A red marking on the back of our hands and support band sound enters ears and consciousness. Remember a friend. Took his girlfriend to a Mogs gig a few years ago. She couldn’t bare it. Poor R. thought it would be nice and easy but they’re doin heavy metal. Post rock bands tend to release untamed noise now & then. Especially on stage. How’s this band called? … Locals? Aye. Great. What was that? Dunno, have yourself a go. Repeat name of band! …, latin equivalent of… Bollocks. Yet he was willing. Eventually, friend of theirs. Oh well, post rock flourishes when young lads form bands to play their mind, away, away from da hype.
More support in a bit.
Stage consisted of 3 layers. The set up takes a while. It’s worth it. Standing right at the front is interesting. A proper eye-witness: limited distraction. However, the loo 6000 miles away.
Facing each other, the multi-talanted duo kicks in. Berg Sans Nipple. Sans is without in French. Is it? And berg, I suggest, is left. A rhythmy imported product. Perfect warm up. They could stand on their own, could headline, no, really, they’re good. What’s that now? Who’s that side-stage? Dancing… off his head, got a trumpet, must be a DMST agent. Hey, now he’s humpin the air. And he moves, there he goes, jammin with the boys. He’s the man, cool as fuck. Hm, not mic-ed up. No problem, sorted now. The crowd loves him. Do you? Actually I was thinking I should get a supporters CD. Top stuff. Like Fourtet.
And now for something completely different…
more fragments…
of this review…
2 drumkits? Hm… I should have known. Well, while the lads tune their whatever needs tuning, let us introduce two new characters, essential figures, plot rotators: the Professor and the Fatman. The former is well known to gig regulars as the accidental birth showing up at a gig to communicate loudly personal experiences, receive extraordinary phonecalls etc. Fatman’s is the first appearance, so crucial I shiver at the thought. Being the left & right encounters of a dignified status, Fatman pivots and covers a 4-spectators’ space right on our backs, blocking out the professor, who I’m sure right now still sucks his thumb, always in style, now in despair. Godspeed you piece of scum! Shhhhh… shhhhh. The DMST bass director silences the audience. Off we take…
The shifts from one song to the next are sweet. Sometimes though, they pause to tune, and we share jokes with them, and we nick their beer, and they claim it back later. The bass, the bass. Barefoot. Fretless at times. A prize-winning moustache. That’s the man though, the skinny one, the noisemaker. What about the steroid block? Without pick, without. They go melancholic. When trumpeting and saxophonizing. Like a train through a tunnel and there’s always, always, always light at the end of it. Not darkness, not pessimism. Just ‘that’ band, the one who’s gonna make ‘that’ gig even when they’re old and bald and cough too much. Great, great. Say no more, say no more, you spoil it.
Bits and pieces. Of life, of thought. Text of bits and pieces accordingly. Right?
Hel Walker
Åîùôåñéêüò ÓõíåñãÜôçò |
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