In a city where takeaways are the front line in a turf war, our epicurean chronicler is forced to seek sustenance in an unforgivable place.
Rather Copeland reminds me of one of those outsider artists like Ferdinand Cheval or Henry Darger, people who mindmap and create huge, mystifyinig edifices of work; stuffed full of weird curlicues and cul de sacs.
Haines has this very expressive way of playing keys too; he hammers through the notes, pressing the keys like he’s battering through some Mozart concerto, using his playing to signal changes of mood and pace.
So imagine me drawing a shiny sun and a green field getting ploughed up by a bloody great big tank with “heavy metal groove” written on the side. Katadreuffe were that good. Savvy?
5am felt like anytime, not tired, but totally wired, chatting onto old pals and lost in this alternative reality bubble that Fat White Family had blown. They're one of those bands that could - quite easily -make you not bother about anyone else, ever.
But for most of the crowd, I wonder if they were just here to stare at Mark E Smith. His status is becoming like one of those First World War, “last survivor” veterans they used to inappropriately wheel out at remembrance ceremonies a few decades back.
Frankly, Lucrecia Dalt ruined the rest of the evening for Incendiary. The bar was set too high and anything after this was a coda to what went before.
Frankly Iceage could cover The Hollies and make it sound like the world is ending and Fenris the wolf is unchained, such is the honest, “there for all to see” drama they create.
Bombino is in my humble opinion, best seen live, with no strings attached. In some ways he’s one of the few musicians where a sense of possession or “proprietorship” or “understanding” shouldn’t really bother anyone in an attempt to enjoy the music.
It’s time to go and our intrepid author is finally leaving. An early night however is not his only concern. It is imperative that he arrives back before his bibulous companion JC. If not then all his anxiety and sobriety will have been for naught. The race is on and the stakes could not be higher, but who will prevail Niki or James?
In fact things started to get groovy; despite the lights being up and a lot of the audience being gauche stoner wallflowers; we noticed a fair number of groovers had started to cut some rug to good effect.
I still wonder about what the qualitative differences between this form of entertainment and, say, watching a string quartet are; or watching someone knocking out a Buxtehude piece on an organ.
Adi’s grumbling through his vocals like Alberich the dwarf… “Ceaseless I toil”… you said it, love…
I mean everything’s cool and, (to quote Wymer from Vox von Braun), there are no problems, but… why on earth do the cars have to levitate above the tarmac tonight?
Finally tiring of wondering when the singer’s going to stop acting like a villain from a Buster Keaton film and “get it on” and suck the blood of a virgin, we look around. It looks like a webmaster’s conference.
It’s akin to listening to an audition to become NL’s number one flood defence warning system.
Alone and a long way from home our tremulous author embarks on the dread journey home but is quickly distracted from the task at hand, taking solace in cancelled television programmes and ludicrous blockbusters starring Dennis Hopper, and he wonders why he spends his life scrawling nonsense in a garret rather than playing an active role in society.
Somehow this C?B! thing could be a runner. Nature and Nurture, Prospero and Caliban, Bitter and Mild, or even a cherry in your spritzer. Let’s see what next year throws up.