Well, it gets me out of the house on a Friday night, and I'm going to miss that when its all over. Took me over and hour and a half to get to Brixton this evening, I ought to go to more shows in Nottingham, its quicker.
Thought I'd missed tonight's opening act, Arthur and Martha, but they leapt to the stage a few minutes after I arrived. The first couple of songs were kind of like walkig alonga street where cars aren't allowed, but a few songs in, the one with the crackly speaker noise was was nice, and they found their groove.
Its a curved triangular gamut, with Saint Etienne, Younger Younger 28s, Stereolab nd Kraftwork at the points and Arthur and Martha wandering between.
Ooh, back track solo!
Sometimes cracking pop, edgy and new waveish, and sometimes dreary. I preferred them at the Buffalo.
My enjoyment of the next band was diminished by most people in the crowd talking during the songs. Mostly odd-shaped people, speccy twats and cunts with bags.
Imagine reader, you've paid five pounds to go to a gig, now arrange the following three things in order of priority:-
1. Listening to the bands on stage
2. Chatting to your mates
3. Getting pished
I'm not suggesting that these three things are mutually exclusive, just prioritise them considering when you do that you've paid five pounds to go to this gig. Now fuck off.
I've never killed anyone with a blade, but you know in the film Marathon Man, uncle Larry has that concealed knife up his sleeve so he can deftly slash an elderly jewish woman's throat when she recognises him in the street.
It would be a neat way to stop someone talking at at gig.
"This woman needs help, someone, please...."
So Elika, on stage, a little electro, Twin Peaksy Julee Cruise vocals, kind of droney.
The largest array of guitar effects pedals I've seen in months.
If I were drunker and the crowd quieter, it would be neatly hyponotic and overwealming and the sort of thing I'd listen to under smoke and multi-coloured lights.
Gah! I'd wandered outside to scribble between bands, and missed a little of the next band, Eat Lights Become Lights. The place is packed near the front, its dark and stark on stage, rock is happening, two guitars, a bass, drums and a synth, and no microphones. Yay.
Instrumental rock, throbbing basslines, squelchy effects. Warm, blissful darkness, rather happy looking lead guitar chappy, who seemed amused whenever the floppy haired bassplayer puts on his glasses to play specific lines.
They had a strobe light on stage.
Oh, I miss strobe lights.