NED'S ATOMIC DUSTBIN
BELFAST LIMELIGHT
"WE NEARLY never made it to Ireland at all," says bass player
Mat.
"They found a 20 foot hole in the side of the ferry we were supposed
to sail on."
Ned's Atomic Dustbin tumble into the Belfast Limelight jabbering.
"We had to cross the border, driving up from the gig in Limerick
last night. It was terrifying," says singer Jonn. "People
from our own country were scaring the shit out of us. Then again, anybody
wearing camouflage with a sub-machine gun and access to your underpants
is going to scare the shit out of you."
Tonight's gig will be the Neds' second since their Big Night Out just
before Christmas at the Wolverhampton Civic Hall. Only weeks after selling
2,200 tickets in their hometown, the band are back squashing into 200
capacity clubs on their first tour of Ireland. A bit of a bummer? Not
likely. What will make it dead dead dead good is
the fanaticism of the Neds' Irish audience. By noon, there are hordes
of corrugated-heads swarming outside the venue - people who have yet
to actually see the band live.
The Limelight had its licence withdrawn early last year, on the grounds
that the place had become a haunt of dealers and prostitutes. During
the hiatus in trading, some refurbishment was made - a fresh epidermal
sheathing, if you like. Now, turquoise and fuchsia neon zips about the
ceiling. Mirror balls sparkle above the stage, which is little more
than a raised podium in one corner of the room. The staff seem keen
to keep the trimmings nice. The promoter is actually polishing the PA
with Mr Sheen (Jonn tells me that the Neds' new term for time-wasting
is "morris dancing"). Behind his back, a steady stream of
urchin fans are entering the venue through the fire escapes and toilet
windows. '
The Neds soundcheck 'Happy', their new single. And everybody in the
place stops to listen -the gum-beating bar staff, dazed security, even
their manager Tank, who's now well known for his tongue-like-a-union-jack-in-a-force-nine-gale,
is muted momentarily.
It will be on the release of 'Happy' this week that the Neds will prove
they are set to soar. The ominous Stourbridge connection - ie, the popular
view that Ned's Atomic Dustbin are a support band, operative only due
to the hometown camaraderie that Pop Will Eat Itself and The Wonder
Stuff have extended toward them - will, at this juncture, become wholly
invalid. 'Happy' marks the point at which the first classic 'song' surfaces
out of the Neds' caustic skirmish. The point at which-without diminishing
whiplash, or girlying-out the vocal melody -their popcore sound fans
its tail.
THE SUPPORT band sound like a Dinosaur Jr 45 played at 33. Meanwhile,
droves of scruffy little sods approach the Neds. One young thing offers
John a crisp fiver for his autograph. John is horrified. I talk to 14-year-olds
who tell me they've travelled 50 miles to see the band and will have
to spend a night sleeping on the street in sub-zero temperatures in
the company of the militia. Far too many people are locked out.
Backstage Alex holds the floor with his astonishing impersonation of
Vanilla Ice: "Actually, I can't quite get it right tonight,"
says the bass player. "I feel like I've got a cowpat in my lungs."
Tank opines that the Neds are more of a herd than a posse. He's probably
right. Tank is modelling a sample of the band's new merchandise- a T-shirt
(design number 30-something) embossed with the word 'happy', which could
quite easily be mistaken for 'nappy' at a few paces. The manager is
unconcerned. And why shouldn't he be? Ned's Atomic Dustbin are almost
as famous for their shirts as they are for their music.
Mary Anne Hobbs