Other than a dull throbbing pain in my feet, I feel nothing. NPL John, I am your blank canvas.
When I arrive at the venue there's already a kick ass band onstage, their music so much potential to be richly textured.
There was a sign on the door saying no photography without permission and after seeing one chap get escorted out by brutal looking security woman I'm not going to risk it, instead this review will be filled with stock photos of Plimptons gigs and in a vaguely ironic twist a Plimpton at the NPL club night in Glasgow, as run by Butcher Boy's John.
So this first mob on stage, I don't catch their name, but they have CDs for sale which the say contain better songs than what they're playing tonight. Lets assume that's a positive thing.
Their last song is quite a funky number, with jazzy guitar noodles and drums ripped out of the Dananananaykroyd songbook. It rather neatly breaks into pounding driving rhythms too, rah!!
They have a lot of support in the crowd, cheering for an encore from the first band of the night.
Elsewhere on the internet the guy at Unpopular was moaning about gigs with too many bands and how it'd be neat if there were more gigs with only two bands rather than this sort of four band bill. I agree.
Next on stage are some mob who have a release, the debut release on the Pop Art label. They launch straight into the deep end. Noisy guitar, Blow Up organ and riot grrl vocals from a young lady dancing like the sixties weren't 40 years ago. Gimme some doop.
Its loud yelpy music, surprisingly bold for the five people on stage, carefully measuring out the guitar nouse, noodles and organ.
On the underground on the way here there was this girl who looked like Heather Graham, and whilst her appearance in Twin Peaks as an ex-nun love interest for agent Dale Cooper signaled the jumping of the shark moment for the series, at this gig she walks past and suddenly I see Mop Girl, an old Glasgow ex-pat who I have't seen for about 18 years and Sam Babies from the first place. Thor is here and the Just joans materialise beside me. With no spiked drink spewing girl I'm in a bright and sunny parallel universe.
On the merchy desk the chap from The Pop Art Allstars is selling and I'm almost tempted to buy a copy of the band on stage's take on 21st century Le Tigre, instead I retreat to a dark corner to scribble.
Third band of the night are Brontosaurus Chorus and they fill me with joy, all seven of them on stage. I think they are the same people as the Pop Art Allstars but with Jona and the merchy dude.
They have trumpets and violin and cello and they fill me with joy. Even the singing girl who looks like Idlestar. They invite folk from the previous band up for songs and there's so much joy in it, I'm both drunk and gleeful. They're like the Hermit Crabs without the whine or Camera Obscure for the new DIY indiepop generation.
The Felt Tips are here, blocking my scribbling light. NPL John comes over and says hi, the past six years of going to his club night have finally paid off.
I was in the Rough Trade supermarket today and I saw the Hermit Crabs album on Matinee and along with news that The Royal We are signed to Domino/Geographic and Dananananaykroyd are the toast of the NME. Its kind of like we are the kings. Sometimes the light catches it just so, and to steal from the Midlands, everything is sparkly.
Its the emotional equivalent of taking e when Butcher Boy take to the stage and whilst when they start the random girls stood behind me and to te right are talking about Dallas or Dynasty, by the halfway stage I'm catching snatches of conversation which progress along the lines of "...like the Proclaimers..." but then drifts into the territory of "...that Glasgow thing..." and "... Delgados... and Sebastian" Which is maybemore accurate. but this mob on stage are sharper. They're the guys that the 'Seb and the 'Scura dance to and write songs about. They wrote the algorithm and perfected it.
Whilst Brontosaurus Chorus had me in indiepop tears, Butcher Boy are stadium heros, Los Angeles will come to a standstill when they get there.
Violin riffs for your mind and the razor sharp lilt in John's vocals. The driving rhythm that doesn't just drive, it carries along in a chocolate bowlie filled satchel.
Here, tonight we all win. How big and for real can they make it?
Cut the crap, the Franz were just a scouting party, Scottish world domination is unstoppable for a third time.
And when I look up, my drunken hyperbol is only a wee bit diminished.
Photies
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Reviews
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