You are currently browsing the monthly archive for October, 2001.
Shortly after we fucked the mouse out of the band. It's a harsh world, kids, just ask Mustaine.
[w/ PKD]
In the time it took us to travel from Dublin to Cork, we could have flown to New York or New Delhi. But nobody in New York has ever heard of the Jimmy Cake, and New Delhi doesn’t want us. So, unbearable drive down aside, we probably made the right the decision. 8 hours stuck in a car made the vista of Cork’s twinkling, jazzy lights a welcome sight, and the Gardai who was going to fine us breaking a traffic light, or that tiny altercation twixt the rear of the van and the fore of the car (*ahem*) weren’t going to get in the way of our quest for good times in order to render the excursion worthwhile. And worthwhile it certainly was.
The Triskel is a great venue, old cinema style seats, a high roof, a sound man, who with limited resources, gave us one of our best ever on stage sounds. After RTE last Monday, and now this, certain members of the riddim and geetar sections are still reeling happily at the hidden gems of clarinet and accordion virtuosity we had hitherto been negligent of, given that most of the gigs were awash of noisy feedback and cymbals. Many hours were wiled away laughing raucously at Jurgen and Lisa’s newly-heard interplay. How we hooted.
Afore the gig we partook of some brews, and sat in the corner of the Triskels tiny bar feeling righteously foreign, feeling like a real band. How would we fare here, where no-one knows nor cares of us? We weren’t eally worriedthough. It was just a relief to be able to feel ones knees again. We caught the end of PKD saxcellant set, before setting up ourselves. How funny we must have looked fumbling with cables and leads and tripping over one another on the cosy stage.
We lashed into a few songs. The audience, due the curious acoustics, were privy to some debating in the dead time between songs:”here Vinny, you forgot to do the thing there.”
“what thing?”
“the bleeding feedback thing”
“oh, yeah.”
We realized on stage banter did not need to be miked up. Oh yes, they could hear us quite clearly. It became quite the vaudeville after that. Musically we did alright. We did our new tune One and One is Onetety One*, and were pleasantly surprised when we got it right. We were pleasantly surprised by the whole thing. The audience was fair and even handed and they indulged us and encore. We played our little Dublin hearts out for them and everyone was happy.
Afterwards we negotiated hosts of puke caked, drink addled, on -the-bonnet-of-the-car-riding ‘jazz’ ‘fans’, and settled into to Brian’s various comfy chairs to talk bollocks and swig on the complementary bottles of booze.
Jurgen insisted on driving home then, after 2 hours sleep, in order to tune a piano. Everyone sat in the back, booze frothing at mouths, And Justice For All blaring, shouting obscenities at the cattle. How grown up we felt.
*note: The song that became Limestone Tiger
Monobrowed.
[w/ Rollers/Sparkers & The Warlords Of Pez]
Mono. Mono, Mono, Mono.
Although we were thrilled to be playing again, our previous excursion becoming a non starter (the support gig to Suicide, who couldn’t get out of New York) , and were pleased as punch to be the first ‘live’ band to play Mono since it’s Mean Fiddler days, things were suspiciously omenistic from the start. The taxi never arrived, everyone was late, the PA, large lumbering bins suspended by chains from the ceiling had attacked certain taller members of the Cake and the Rollers,
by cracking their skulls as they ascended to stage, and swung there, as if laughing at our hapless scalps. And we were to be curfewed too, at half fucking ten!. Great. Of course the sound check took too long, and was strangely incomplete, and we had to cater for the other 2 bands by putting back the opening time a few minutes, ever decreasing out window of opportunity.
To add to the gloom every surface in the place was sticky and there was a strange permeating smell of death. A particular kind of death. Perhaps abattoir death. And the dressing room looked like it had crash anded there. There were three bands, ourselves with eight members, the amply – numbered Warlords and the three Rollers. There was no fitting in the room, but there was free crisps.
To relax pre gig we lost a fortune in the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire game. It was a fucking fix.
The Gig went on. Rollers/Sparkers first victims of the cavernous sound, followed by the Warlords of Pez. A fairly bizarre sight, but they did give out free biscuits, so they can’t be all bad. Then us. Good Christ.
The desk hated us, the sound on stage was that of a train crash in an oil tanker. Vinnie and Simon broke strings. Simons guitar refused to tune. Simon sat stage left, crying miserably, feedbacking, miserably. Johns bass pedal bastarded on us. The CD player for “Pauline Littlefingers…” was on the drum riser, and kept skipping, till Simon had to hold it mid air with one bionic hand. By gig’s end we were dejected and deflated. Could this be theworst ever show?
God love the crowd for they love the clowns. They cheered and cheered til, yes, tears formed at the corners of our nubile eyes.
We we’re hounded out of there then, at half ten, like little children at the end of a game of summer football,
porchlights on, knees skimmed, shins shinned. Herded down the stairs like cattle through the all permeating
smell of slaughter house, to the mad camp of the bar, where we hoarded free booze and drank till the pain dulled.
Band: C-. Could do better.
Audience: A+, heinous over achievers.
