(review by discordia)
I went to a Jamboree when I started high school about four hundred years ago, and schools from all over Wales were there. The only clear memory I have of the event… OK, two clear memories… are welcoming each school group into the room by singing ‘Helo (schools name)!’ and then us all sitting on the floor singing a song that I think went something like… (pardon my Welsh)
Canu roc a rol yn y bore
Canu roc a rol yn y pnawn
Canu roc a rol yn y (something)
Canu roc a rol Popeth yn iawn
Being Welsh is fucking hardcore.
I sang some rock and roll myself on Saturday 22 November at the Frog and Nightingale in Chester. Not on stage, but at a stage, a stage writhing with some of the best musicians this side of my fantasies. A plethora of testosterone soaked, guitar flailing, table jumping, lyric shouting, ear pounding, sweaty stripped to the waist punch me in the face with your aural sex fucking music and shit.
It was pretty good.
Carpet owned the evening, as Carpet tend to do. Watching Carpet is like the sex you have when you first start going out with someone new. It’s urgent and exciting and passionate and slightly painful at times, but the good kind of pain, and you want more of it and it always leaves you red faced, breathless, sweaty and walking like John Wayne afterwards. It’s exhilarating. Powerful, skillful, tight and brilliant – why Carpet haven’t yet ascended to the lofty heights of, well, lofty heights I’ll never understand. But then again, who wants to sacrifice integrity for fame? With talent like that oozing from every one of their pores, any outside interference would be like pissing on a sparkler held in the eager hands of a dying child. Everyone who sees Carpet loves them, or gets really jealous and hates them. There is no grey area.
After Carpet, a brief intermission, then Bad for Lazarus – the brand spanking new band of Darth Rich Twitch Frowers Fownes, late of Eighties Matchbox, With Scissors and a brief stint in Nine Inch Nails (I still don’t know what happened so don’t ask me). Fuck me, they’re noisy bastards. Acrobatic noisy bastards. It was hard to pick a song out of the fuzz and grind and mash of music smacking me in the face. I don’t think the bass player was even playing; he seemed to be too busy leaping off furniture. And THREE guitarists? Or was the Sailor Jerry giving me double vision? Rich is a natural frontman, commanding the stage as he does his guitar, good voice too. But, I don’t know… maybe it was having to go on after Carpet, or the amount of alcohol in my blood, or something… it just didn’t really yank my crank. Perhaps it’s because they need to grow together a bit more as a band. It didn’t really gel onstage. There’s obvious talent there – screaming, raging talent – but the whole thing needs a bit more nurturing to be really awesome. And OK, so the Frog and Nightingale isn’t the most acoustically sound venue (being a large-ish pub) but still. I will watch with interest how the band develops but I fear it just isn’t my particular cup of tea. Still a million, billion, trillion times better than almost every other band I’ve seen lately though, so don’t be put off. I think a larger venue might suit them better.
Another brief interval and then Supernought came on and were great fun. Unfortunately by the time they did come on a large breasted wench had forced Sambuca shots on me and I was fucking hammered. REALLY fucking hammered. Still, good fun nonetheless. Sorry I can’t give you a better review boys!
After Supernought finished, so did my memory. I don’t recall a thing until I woke up naked in my bed the next morning. It’s a horrible void. A gaping chasm of nothingness.
Apparently I did nothing embarrassing and was actually of sound mind until we got back to Rhyl. I didn’t throw up, I didn’t fall over, l didn’t try and rape anyone, I didn’t insult anyone, and all was well. I don’t even have one bruise. Awesome.
Still, no memory is horrible. But it was fucking fun.
Anyways, gotta run.
Take care my little lovelies.