| Sunday 31st July, The Quayside (LiveLab), Lincoln
Review by Gaz
Sabbath Bloody Sabbath
Ah, Sunday. The smell of roast meat drifting through the house,
windows dripping with the condensation from simmering pans
upon the stove, and a bounty of politics based TV to numb
even the most robust of hangovers.
But it's not all fun in the sun is it folks? What's that at
the back of your mind? That's right. It's the foul stench
of Monday drifting by on the summer breeze, the day when people
ask you whether you've had a good weekend without really wanting
to know the answer, and we all compare notes on how busy we've
been, until Friday comes around and we rejoice in the wonder
and possibilities that lay ahead.
Anything could happen, but not on Sunday, it's a school night.
Well folks let's do something. Let's get drunk and see a band.
Call it Saturday, and do it properly. No half measures.
Resist the Monday!
As long as there's Sex and Drugs, I can do without the ITV
Drama Premiere.
Atmospheric Pressure
I am most familiar with the Quayside in its capacity as the
Scream nightclub on Saturday nights, and have always found
it to be a most agreeable joint. I inevitably find myself
reposed in a sofa surrounded friendly strangers in the annex
to the rear of the club. A windowed partition separates this
area from the main body of the room, and aside from this oasis,
the seating is pretty sparse. But that's fine. It's not a
sit down sort of venue. This all combines, at times when the
crowds are thinner, to give the feeling of a live venue pre-gig,
right down to the draped banner strung across the far end
of the room. I have always therefore, thought that this place
had the required qualities one would expect for this sort
of bash. The kinds of people that Scream attracts are gig-goers,
festival heads, and dabblers in recreational relaxants. It's
quite something to leave the place mid summer, when the air
outside is warm and the Brayford marina shimmers in the nightlight.
You can find yourself loitering for an hour or so amongst
affable strangers, who a simply having too good a time to
go home. So no pressure you understand, but my expectations
were high as I rolled up that night, resplendent in my Sunday
best, and cotton wool head. High indeed…
The Road to Gigs And Beer…
Good juju was in the air my friends, as only moments after
my arrival I discovered a cheap source of Jack and Coke and
an unattended 50 pence piece. The signs were good. The P.A
set up was squat and cozy, and brought to mind that of a 'Whistle
Test' or 'Later with Jools Holland rig. The first act up,
'The Morphines', were a powerful angry five-piece battering
ram, with a balls-on-the-table sound that is rather hard to
ignore. Which is what you need in a support band I suppose.
The musical equivalent of firing off a couple of rounds into
the air. But despite their over-all confidence and chunky
gut rattling songs, they did seem rather ill at ease on the
stage, and at times a little nervous. Hang on, what the crack
am I talking about? They were a solid piece of Stella fueled
entertainment who did not out stay their welcome, and who
kicked the evening into first gear admirably. Who wouldn't
be a bit nervy Eh? It's all the curse of being first.
If you want comparisons, and some of you evidently do. They
were all pistols without the sex, managing to be vicious but
in no way rotten, and they are most certainly capable of keeping
up with the Jones'
9.50 saw the appearance of The Redcoats*, but not on the stage
as one would expect. Rather they were to be seen living it
up amongst the crowd just in front of the stage, seemingly
drawing their energy for the performance ahead. They were
taking this gig seriously.
Style-wise these boys have the look of a pick 'n' mix band
about them, a Libertine here and a Jethro Tull there. But
the cohesion achieved once they take the stage was impressive.
Before a note was struck we were given a stern talking to
by the stripy shirted and braced frontman. The gist of it
all being that due to a rather unfortunate incident involving
the firing of their drummer, a substitute had been drafted
in at 3 hours notice to fill the percussion hole. The gig
was hitherto dedicated to "Craig the c***t", and
I must say Mr. Three hours did a sterling job on the pot 'n'
pans that night. Not seeming to the untrained ear to miss
a single fill or dead stop.
The audiences' balls had been well and truly grabbed by the
end of the first song, and it was beginning to look rather
like they may be in for a twist before the night was out.
But what the hell, if they can twist, we can shout, eh?
There is no doubt about it folks, these chaps are masterful
in their delivery, and professional in their approach to putting
on a show. What I mean by that of course is they seemed to
be full of booze, which in this game is like a desk to a businessman.
Essential, but fundamentally hard to work under. However,
they seemed to derive most of their on stage unpredictability
and jovial anger from a combination of this and a genuine
need to entertain. And entertain us they did. With a selection
of stomping anthemic rock 'n' roll songs that soothed our
twisted balls, and tickled our lackluster ears.
As the British Empire redcoats and their Butlins namesakes
before them, these boys are well drilled and battle hardened.
When 'owd Shane Ritchie finally leaves the square, I'm all
up for him being replaced by the epileptic Wurzel currently
fronting this outfit.
One axe paid a high price for daring to screw with their regimental
attention to detail. So much so in fact, that it was necessary
to replace it for the final song 'She's a Killer', with an
acoustic understudy. The final push lost none of its warp
factor.
It's all another outpost added to the Empire, the sun never
set on these guys.
Strung Out?
The headlining four-piece that swaggered out onto the stage
next, had quite the shoes to fill, and by all accounts they
didn't make the shiniest of starts. They appeared to me to
look a bit stale, like perhaps they have played these songs
so many times before. Looking to feel how you imagine Jagger
and the boys feel when they hobble out on stage to play Jumping
Jack Flash for the 'the time, the trick being, not to let
it show. Now lets get these comparisons with the Libertines
out of the way first shall we? Yes? Good. They are of a similar
style to the L's, and once you realize this it is much easier
to label them as "The best band since…" than it is to clear
the slate and dig out some adjectives. That is not to say
that they are not the best Libertines-esqe band since the
Libertines, however once Babyshambles get out of first gear
they may have some competition, it is just an example of lazy
journalism. Anyway, I'm not reviewing the NME…. They find
their footing around 4 songs in, and whatever gig hic-ups
seemed to melt away leaving only some rather uneasy silences
between song. So all in all it was a bit of a limp to the
finish, though not so much through any major faults with Thee
Unstrung's peformance, but rather due to the thunder stealing
antics of the act so inopportunely sandwiched in the middle
that night. Anyone arriving post redcoats would have been
duly impressed. An excellent night, though I must confess
it felt like a pig had shat in my head the following morning.
Take care until next time folks…
Peace. G
* The Redcoats are now the Orwells'
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