overlap

Just got home from seeing Wolverhampton's own Timothy Taylor, better known as Tyla of Dogs d'Amour (in)fame. While I've only been there the once before, I'm already aware it's a funny venue, in a too residential location that involves some complicated one way system shenanigans, but all the same there's really no reason to rush to get there early. Where I live is somewhere I'm pretty comfortable with, and I like such variety of accents as exist, but walking in the door and taking three goes to understand an accent so thick that a vat of molten tar would thin it out nicely is always a questionable start. Finding out the venue part of the place is not yet open, and it's a wait in the bar job means I was right not to rush, and I can sit trying to work out who is meant to be who in the rock stars mural opposite the bar. The distinctive Gene Simmons make up is clearly identifiable, Marilyn Manson's eyes are clearly identifiable, Axl's bandana is clearly identifiable but when the guy stood behind me comments that the "Jimi Hendrix" looks more like Viv Anderson, he's not wrong and that's not the only example. Eventually we get into the gig, and the support is Johnny Trashed, a slightly rockabilly flavoured, heavily Johnny Cash influenced band who do barnstorming versions of Folsom Prison Blues, Boy Named Sue and Jackson to finish, along with a handful of other similar stuff, including Ghost Riders In The Sky. Unlikely to change the world, but good fun, party stuff. Tyla's on stage about eleven, and it's fantastic to hear Drunk Like Me for the first time in years. It's not the first time I've seen some of a crowd talking among itself, but it is the first time I've seen someone rewrite a verse on the hoof to have a go at someone shouting in her mate's ear, which would be less obvious if they weren't stood smack in the middle of the dozen people in front of the stage. Empty World is still Satellite Kid's little brother due to the remarkable similarity, Heroine and a couple of newer ones pass the time till How Come It Never Rains and then it's all too quickly time to go, and on the stroke of midnight I'm already pulling into Tesco. A couple of fantastic old songs and all the hanging about doesn't really make for a great night, and I'm glad it was hardly a big journey to get there. For the price of admission it was ok, but rather than enthused about the gig, I'm still tickled at hearing from Tracey Beehive. Which tells its own story.

Labels: gigs, rock, Tyla