overlap

"On The Edge Of A Broken Heart" was a late 1987 single by barely forgotten Brit rockers Briar. It's also a decent description of the time, though that's another story. After recent correspondence, I've been racking my brains for what else I can remember about Mr C's. When I first went there I was still under age for being served with alcohol, which was hardly an interest of mine in any case, but the trouble of my mate borrowing his older brother's driving licence, another mate's suggestion that the door stuff ring his mum for confirmation and the will-we-won't-we part of getting in to the place all live on in my mind. Though the golden age of the New Wave Of British Heavy Metal was long gone, there were still a handful of bands of that ilk hanging around. The first gig I saw there was Girlschool, supported by Silent Attack, a local band who I remember being mildly diverting but other than a guitar player with a predominantly red guitar, I don't remember much. Girlschool I remember as being great, even if like virtually everything at that time, I knew by name but couldn't have named a single song. It's hard to believe that without spending a fiver on an album, or borrowing it from someone, it was virtually impossible to know what a band were like. I don't know that we've lost that much in the myspace age where everything is as accessible as you could possibly wish, but it wasn't just me that was a lot more innocent back then. Somewhere in my accumulated life junk lurks Kim McAuliffe's autograph from that night, the first in a very longline of memorabilia/tat (depending on point of view). It was several months later that I made it back to the venue, this time to see the last version of the Tygers of Pan Tang featuring Jon Deverill, one of the most under-rated British rock voices. Within a fortnight I was back again, this time to see Leicester's Chrome Molly, a band who would go on to remember me as the person that undertook a sixty mile round trip by bicycle to get to another gig of theirs. A rather energetic band, CM took onstage activity to new heights, and I even ended up striking an unexpected deal to get both the t-shirt and the cap when I was a quid short for the pair and couldn't decide which I wanted. < twenty minute gap in which I've found Steve's finally built a CM website, and sent him a message on F*cebook - what was I saying about the modern world and accessibility ? > Within the next month I'd also seen The Grip for the first time, Redbeards From Texas (ZZTop-alike blues-rock fun), and caught two support slots by another local band, Rich Bitch. I don't know whether it says more about me or them that I still remember the chorus of their eponymous, set-closing song. For that first show, The Grip were still a trio, but by the time they came back in the November (supported by Silent Attack) they'd expanded to a four piece, the addition of Steve Redvers on bass meaning Willie could do a bit of extra guitar and the odd bit of keyboards. I'd have to check my diary to see which of the two shows Spike from the Quireboys joined Willie for the final song, which was probably Great Balls Of Fire. At the latter of these I chose to invest in the t-shirt on the basis the England You're Dead ep would be more likely to turn up again than the shirt. Less than a month later I was in legendary London metal shop shades, and they'd already sold out of copies. And that was the last I'd see of that ep for some years... The Tygers came back again, a day I remember well for more than just that. There's a signed copy of the Burning In The Shade album here in my shelves, and after my first taste of bitter (from a can, from their rider) and half an hour of backstage starstruck (nothing but good luck) chat, I was retrieving my bike form the bushes round the corner and heading home. The above mentioned Briar turned up, promoting that single with a b-side non-novelty song written by one Jonathan King. not a lot oF call for that sort of thing even then. I saw John Otway for the first time, I saw Tigertailz (and ended up with a "free" t-shirt - don't ask!). I saw the magnificent Truffle again - a band whose material was something like the middle ground between Dio and Magnum, and that's another tape I must dig out again now I think about it. Bands I failed to see there include Deacon Blue (don't ask), and Warfare and Rock Goddess who were allegedly booked but the gig never materialised. And then I saw Wolfsbane, which changed my life all over again. I never really thought about it at the time, but this was rather a formative experience in going to small gigs, probably getting on for three quarters of them on my own. Which never bothered me in the slightest. Like everything else, Mr C's ended, then re-opened named Lator's for a time, though by then I'd moved away. In an unsurprising twist for the twenty first century, Mr C's is now back as a venue, even if it seems to be the lower floor rather than the upstairs area where it used to be. It even has a website - check it out. Given the chance I'll try and stop by when I'm down there next time if there's something on, for a true step back in time experience. Those were the days, my friend!

Labels: Chrome Molly, gigs, The Grip, Wolfsbane

Travelling in expectation can be a risky business, and having been sat on a ticket for a month or so, I'd definitely claim to have been excited about seeing Camera Obscura at last. They caught my attention with Lloyd, I Am Ready To Be Heartbroken a couple of years ago, and I've had my eye out for a chance to make a gig ever since. I don't know what they put in the water up there - insert gratuitous Irn Bru/buckie reference here if you feel the need - but the consistent output exemplified by the likes of Teenage Fanclub/BMX Bandits/Eugenius, and my current favourites Aberfeldy, Attic Lights, The Hussy's [sic] and, yes, Camera Obscura, means I have a good feeling in general about a lot of music from Scotland. It also explains why most of these bands aren't exactly playing on my doorstep on a frequent basis, so this time I was taking my car on what is probably its final visit to the Midlands. With a 6.30 start for a 9.30 curfew, this was always going to be a slightly different gig. It was 7.30 by the time I got there, but caught the last five or six songs of support band Kid Captain. You know what I was saying about being haunted by support bands with iffy names? Right. Their major asset is the lead singer's voice, which reminds me of Paddy McAloon's in places, but I'm not expecting to remember them clearly in a couple of years time. Camera Obscura take the stage under mostly blue lighting, and with Traceyanne's blue dress and Kenny and Gavin in blue shirts, there's a whole lot of blue going on. Which makes taking pictures without flash difficult, but on the other hand it's easy to spot Traceyanne shutting her eyes in preparation when she can see the orange beams warning that a preflash is coming, for which I don't blame her. One song is introduced as a new one, but the bulk of the set is recognisable to me, and I'm especially pleased they do Teenager. Having been anxious about time ticking away, I needn't have worried about how they were going to fit a full set in as one delightful three minute pop masterpiece follows another before they re-emerge for a brief encore of Eighties Fan, one of only two things that hadn't already turned up from my fantasy set list. This was not much more half a dozen people just having a lot of fun on stage together, and though the crowd as a whole was a little quiet, it made for a perfect small scale pop party, and this part of the crowd enjoyed it greatly. So I guess I've found another band to be a fan of rather than another band I listen to from time to time. Despite having the option to try and get into a later starting gig just along the road, I preferred to leave it at one great gig for the night, and headed for the car in the hope of an earlyish return home. Traceyanne guitarhero - the keen eye will spot the fluo green venue access pass sticker just peeking out from under her dress on her left leg. Which amuses me greatly. And yes, flickr, you know by now. The video for Eighties Fan. * is the first line from the song Dory Previn from Camera Obscura's fine Let's Get Out Of This country album

Labels: Camera Obscura, gigs

Walking through the front door of a venue to see a bigger crowd than expected and a guy with a Flying V guitar jumping up and down to end the first song of the set is always a good sign. It is pretty easy to end up seeing a band enough times to get to know them fairly well, even if you don't especially like them, and Thunder is one such. I have nothing against Thunder, and we're closing in on double figures, so when I see them it can go one of two ways. If it's been a while I tend to think that I'd forgotten how good they can be, and if it hasn't then I'm usually reminded more about why I wouldn't describe myself as a particular fan. I checked, and it has been a couple of years, so I was hoping for good things. Danny Bowes must have the fitness levels of your average fitness instructor the way he bounces around, and you can see that he, Luke and GaryHarry have been working together for a very long time. Love Walked In is great, Low Life In High Places remains a classic lost rock single, and IIIIIIIIIII Love You More Than Rock N Roll is both a fine line and a storming way to end a set. On the other hand, the cover of Gimme Some Lovin' remains ill-advised when there are many better songs of their own they could be doing, and the wisdom of extended bouts of back and forth crowd participation is perhaps questionable in a 45 minute, third on the bill set. Whatever, fine bunch of chaps and I wish them well. Another band I've never been especially close to is Whitesnake. Coverdale is an easy target, but he's got the best perm money can buy and in Reb Beach and Doug Aldrich he has a fine pair of guitar players. Three of the first five songs being off the new album (I think) is pushing anyone's patience, though dedicating Love Ain't No Stranger to the recently deceased Mel Galley is a nice touch. In the latter half of the show he stops using profanity in the sort of industrial quantities I normally do (note to self: every third word being bleepable looks really trying too hard to be down with the kids ridiculous in your average late fifty-something), and the unfamiliar/new songs go away. Ain't No Love Crying In The Heart Of the Shadow Of The Blues In The City, Here I Go In My Leather Strides Again and other well known 'snake classics turn up, but they come with too much raspy squealing and the melody coming from what seems suspiciously like one of the four other vocal mikes on the stage. Sure, he's an engaging frontman and he has a fine pedigree, but I don't feel cheated that I never saw the show before, and I'm not rushing to find out where I can repeat the experience. It's a box ticked, an expression I can imagine Old Cov using himself. Doug and Dave - see flickr for a few more. Def Leppard, on the other hand, is a band I've wished I'd seen some time before. I had a ticket for the Hysteria tour but ended up not able to go, and with the whole saga of Rick's arm, Steve Clark's untimely death and so on, they've been somewhere around my consciousness for a long time. Joe Elliot is perhaps the rock Simon Le Bon these days, but that's really no bad thing, and everything you could want to hear is belted out with gusto. Photograph is a personal highlight, for more than one reason. Viv Campbell and Phil Collen provide an ongoing lowlight, with their bare chested man boob competition, which lasts at least an hour of the set. Really, no thanks. Sav looks like a young Duff McKagan, and seems the least aged of the lot of them, and watching Rick drum every time he is on the video screen is half intriguing, half inspiring. Having spotted the amount of other vocal supporting Coverdale, it strikes me the Def Lep sound is actually not so dissimilar, but their reputation is less built around a single voice. By the end of the show I'm waiting for Let's Get Rocked to finish so I can get home to bed, but three classic rock bands for that price can't be bad. I'm bound to end up running into Thunder again sooner or later, and Def Leppard coming within striking distance would definitely tempt me out again, so not a bad night of rock, all told.

Labels: Def Leppard, gigs, Thunder, Whitesnake

A leisurely start saw me delayed by the roadworks on the M1, but happily not by the expected ranks of fans of the futility circuits at Silverstone. With a small amount of navigational difficulty, I parked up under queenie's castle at Windsor and got on the first train to Twickenham, which gradually filled up with people in leather jackets and Iron Maiden shirts as we got closer. I'm not a huge fan of Maiden, and I guess I think of them as the NWOBHM Beatles, a benchmark for their genre, but my feelings are coloured rather more by them breaking up Wolfsbane when Bruce had a few years off from Maiden. I'd liken it to having your childhood sweetheart run off with some guy that's always in your local pub, a guy whom you can't avoid even though he's not really a mate of yours. Even though last year's handful of gigs were the first Wolfsbane shows in thirteen years, there are still only three or possibly four acts I've seen more times than Wolfsbane. I never listened to Maiden with Blaze singing because I just couldn't face it, and while I last saw Maiden with Bruce back in the fold a few years ago, I suspect that without the recent Wolfsbane shows I might not have bothered with this one. With the benefit of non-wasted years in the meantime, I can understand why it was an opportunity Blaze couldn't turn down, and I don't blame him for it, but all the same it isn't quite water fully under that bridge. Blaze's new album is great, btw! People, people everywhere meant I didn't make it inside the stadium for Lauren Harris' set, but there was a sharp contrast between this and the Springsteen show that I've not got round to coming back to. Where the Springsteen show was characterised by unfriendly and unhelpful stewarding and general stupidity, the Twickenham area police who had closed off the roads, and the staff around the stadium couldn't have been more helpful. Even if the guy who searched my bag on entry wasn't quite sure what to make of my make up bag. Within Temptation bring to mind Julianne Regan fronting Europe around the thunderous Start From The Dark album - great high register female vocals and the sort of muscular euro-rock-with-keyboards that gets my toes tapping. Good start. Avenged Sevenfold benefit from a guitarist looking like Nicky Wire auditioning for Mötley Crüe, but for the most part it's generic shouty plod metal that doesn't get me excited. The singer gains my respect for being sensitive to people having difficulties in the heaving crowd, stopping the song and directing security, but ultimately there's nothing there I'm desperate to listen to again. Policing fifty thousand people is always going to be asking a lot, and the vain attempts of the orange shirted response teams were mildly amusing for all of ten seconds. The amount of plastic bottles in the air around Avenged Sevenfold was visible enough that people were trying to take pictures of it, but people who can afford more than sixty quid including parasite fees are for the most part plenty old enough to know better than to be chucking nearly full bottles of beer over everyone that their pisspoor aim can reach. I was really bored of the spectacle by the time I saw the third person get smacked in the back of the head by a bottle, and while my pictures show you I was close enough to see the stage clearly, I'm old enough to know that what suits me best is maintaining my own personal space and staying away from most of the crowd action as much as I can. Churchill's speech came on the screen, Aces High roared out of the speakers, and the place erupted. Two Minutes To Midnight held the same level of excitement before it dipped for Revelations. First of several costume changes saw Bruce in red waving his flag about for The Trooper, then Wasted Years and Number Of The Beast rounded off the first half dozen songs. Couldn't ask for much more, though Revelations and the full twelve minute Rime Of The Ancient Mariner could perhaps be replaced by five other songs I'd rather hear, and without breaking the momentum of the set. Powerslave sees Bruce in a face mask that looks like an accident in a fascinator factory - check it out on flickr if you don't believe me - Heaven Can Wait and Run to The Hills are majestic in their uptempo galloping Maidenness, before Fear Of The Dark and Iron Maiden bring the main set to a close. Moonchild, The Clairvoyant and a closing Hallowed Be Thy Name mean we've used up a fair few quid's worth of pyro, Eddie's lurched forwards in his bandages, and it's 10.20pm and time to go home. I'm still pleased to have seen a show based around material from that era, and there's no doubt they've put a lot of effort and money into the show. On the way back to the station the police again had everything under control and did a great job. It's interesting to note that the Springsteen show had an awful lot less disruption among the crowd, and even though I rapidly run out of patience with that sort of thing, I still enjoyed the Maiden gig a hell of a lot more. And home just before 2.30am wasn't a bad result either. Here's Steve, but there's plenty more on flickr.

Labels: Blaze Bayley, gigs, Iron Maiden, Wolfsbane

After the Blissfields Festival got cancelled at a fairly late stage, it was possible that the warm-up gig would have been cancelled, though happily it all went ahead as something else got found to fill in the Blissfields date. There's always something about the first show of more than one, in this case the first of three, though I was only going to make it two. Running into people I've not seen for a while, catching up on what's going on in other people's lives, and getting a decent gig on top is a good way to spend an evening. For non-locals, a gig on a boat is an additional novelty, for a guitarist who has spent some time without picking up a guitar on account of getting on with the more important business of fatherhood, it's a pleasant change even with a troubled hand and with an early start for an early curfew for a club night to follow, there was an outside chance I'd get an earlyish night, but as it happened... In what seems to be an ongoing routine of support bands with questionable names, I sat through The Weary Band because I like support bands, and I don't want to miss something I might like. Starting off like the more bouncy jangly indie of The Candyskins, we sort of lost our way a bit by the end of the set. Nothing outstanding either way, but you never know when a band is going to write the next great song. The Wonder Stuff romped through nearly ninety minutes of a set comprising a predictable selection of songs, all of them hit at full speed, with Donation in particular rocking the boat. The curfew meant that it was a pretty focused set, hit after hit after classic album track, and the set finished a mere twenty five minutes after the arbitrary curfew. Somehow the early night turned into getting home at 1.30 via some late night shopping in the 24 hour supermarket, but then I did have the next day off. Four hours of the afternoon were spent enjoying the motorways between here and the East Midlands, and the rarity value of not driving to and from the gig meant itself somehow combined with half a bottle of wine. For unknown support bands with iffy names, at least The Weary Band is understandable from the stage. But perfect diction and audio clarity (or a glut of flyers!) is required to understand what The Fideal Efect are called. The guitarist looks like Lofty Holloway re-styled by Radiohead, the singer has armfuls of star tattoos and a certain presence but even now while I'm listening to them on myspace, I'm struggling to pin them down. It's a bit like a slowed down Bennet with more of those horrible RadioFerdinandPatrol held down chord shapes strummed relentlessly than any band really needs, ie some, but it'll be interesting to see if they can come up with any more memorable songs from this vaguely promising start. The headline set was marginally less loud but noticeably hotter, and it is a funny little place for a gig. Not quite hitting the previous night's heights, possibly down to needing a little more ventilation or cool air movement, but still a more than proficient way to race through nearly ninety minutes of great songs. Somehow I never tire of Mission Drive, or Disco King, or Blah Blah La di Dah, or On The Ropes for that matter. And even getting back out to the motorway wasn't that tricky, despite the less than circular nature of Derby's ring road! * "I'm just two legs of the groove machine" is from Radio Ass Kiss

Labels: gigs, The Wonder Stuff

Well, it's very interesting that despite the apparent lack of interest in or widespread knowledge of Journey, without a hit single anywhere near here in quite some time, this blog and the last two posts in particular have produced a lot more traffic than I normally get. On an entirely different journey note, it's sunday evening and I've just had a couple of fried egg sandwiches. By my calculation that's the first hot food I've had since wednesday evening, so the next time I'm complaining about my less than perfect healthy eating habits after I've been to a few gigs close together, it's a matter of record that I really have nobody else to blame. Saying that, after three gigs, two goes of going to bed at gone three, seven hundred odd miles of motorways, and umpteen cups of tea, I do feel pretty good for it. Rock!