scans.
GIGGERS WITHOUT ATTITUDE
FROM ALL CORNERS OF THE LAND, THEY JOURNEYED. TO THE PLACE KNOWN SINCE TIME BEGAN AS ... HEMEL HEMPSTEAD. STEPHEN DALTON HITS THE ROAD WITH NED'S ATOMIC DUSTBIN
Ned's Atomic Dustbin fans genuinely do trek immense distances to see
their idols. They are a tribalistic herd, their instincts as one with
the Stonehenge hippy convoys. The Neds are their band. Borrowing the
mud-encrusted, post-apocalypse. Mad Max squat-dweller chic of hard-core
- and squeezing it into dinky power-pop arrangements, they create an
easily copied look; without the alienating grind. One Stourbridge insider
christened their sound "pop-core", a hairy-shouldered hybrid
with huge crossover potential.
"They've broadened their appeal now, they've gone a lot more poppy."
confirms the band's longtime press officer, Jayne Houghton. "Right
from the beginning they attracted that knapsack brigade, the people
who followed the Stuffies."
Floppy-fringed singer Jonn was not calculating commercial appeal when
he formed the Neds from several disintegrating local bands in 1989.
He was simply learning by example from grebo-gurus. Pop Will Eat Itself
and The Wonder Stuff. John was exploiting the grass-root support for
meat-and-potatoes rock which has always held sway in Britain's provincial
towns - especially the Midlands, with its long tradition of churning
out hugely popular but deeply unfashionable music, from Black Sabbath
to Napalm Death.
Wedged between the North's self-mythologising mystique, and the South's
cosmopolitan cock-sureness, dreary old Birmingham and its brown-brick
satellites had no choice but to convert their very ordinariness into
a marketable asset with global appeal. An impossible task? Witness the
chart-eating Slade. stadium-filling Wonder Stuff, and now Ned's Atomic
Dustbin, playing before a thousand youths in a vast Hertfordshire shed.
And every one of them chanting "You fat bastard! You fat bastard!"
A typical Neds fan. according to band manager Tank, is "male or
female - which is important - between 17 and 21, and usually quite tired
of everything else that's going on. Most of them are totally anti the
things that are rammed down their throats via the press." Like
New Model Army, the Neds exist in a vacuum, and profit from a ferociously
loyal fan base amassed through non-stop live slogging. Clocking up 98
gigs last year, they are the rampaging repo men of rock - calling home
the dispossessed generation who gave up on pop music in Mrs Thatcher's
empty designer decade. Plus, of course, there's always the thousands
of style-saturated students who like jumping up and down a lot. Yet
how long will the shaven-headed hordes continue to identify with heroes
now signed to major label Sony and who no longer crash on fans' floors
but in stay in posh hotels. The West Midlands road warriors have reached
a major junction, and they can't turn both ways.
Tonight's concert, only the second of an extensive British tour, will
not go down as a classic. Bassist, Mat, is suffering sudden illness
of the bowel-flushing variety and fulfils his stage role with numb efficiency.
The bouncers at Hemel Hempstead's Pavilion toss frantic fans back over
the safety barrier with an unhealthy relish, but fail to stop an alarming
speaker-stack stage-diver. Typical mayhem for a Neds gig, of course,
but something doesn't quite gel. It's not the music, because their meaty
mash of melodic pop and chaotic thrash is built to withstand any mishap
or inconvenience. They could hammer out 'Until You Find Out' or 'Terminally
Groovie' on any sports field at midday - the Reading festival in early
afternoon, say - and still whip up sufficiently sweaty atmosphere. Perhaps
the presence of various big cheeses from Sony, up from London to check
on their investment, is causing tension. Guitarist Rat is certainly
in a strop, opting out of tonight's interview, while Jonn suffers a
dramatic cramp attack on the dressing-room floor immediately after the
show. "I stand in a really silly pose on stage'' he explains apologetically.
"I can't control myself if I've had a particularly hectic gig."
The Neds built their reputation on hectic gigs. Now though, among Neanderthal
two-bass-driven blunt instruments like 'Kill Your Television', a subtle
and emotional depth is emerging, which belies the band's cartoon road-Viking
image. "It used to be two people drink lager and the other three
drink Guinness" recalls Mat, an intense idealist affectionately
nicknamed Ollie Obnoxious by his colleagues. He claims "a good
band is made great by the people who come to see them." But he
grumbles about becoming increasingly distant from aggressive audiences.
The Neds, you see. do not don horned helmets and rape whole continents
with their blood-splattered instruments. A more gentle, and approachable,
bunch of chart-pillaging pop stars have yet to grace this planet. "All
music is catharsis" postulates Jonn, in a weary voice at least
half a century older than his 22 years. "Getting out what you feel,
in a suitable manner, without upsetting somebody or hurting yourself,
that's what music is used for, as is theatre and all other forms of
art."
Ah yes. darlings, the theatre. Jonn gave up a drama degree to form the
Neds.
"I think I act now, I play a very convincing part on stage. I've
got to quote Stanislavsky - you don't have to use it - but he said 'trust
the art in yourself: not yourself in the art'."
Untroubled by such lofty concerns, other bassist, Alex, still hates
the band's name - lifted from an ancient Goons script - but is forbidden
from revealing any of the mooted alternatives, because "they were
total crap". Mat: "I thought Thrush was an interesting name,
we wouldn't get played on the radio but we'd probably get some yoghurt
commercials." Jonn: "He wanted to call us Rectal Assassin!"
The Neds' post-gig banter bulges with in-jokes and slang, Viz-speak
and Vic Reeves-isms. Their flat Black Country accents are a positive
boon here, even if Jonn is tired of discussing his roots. "There
isn't a scene in Stourbridge and there's nowhere to play. If you want
to talk about Stourbridge you talk about Pop Will Eat Itself and that's
it." It was the Poppies, along with the Stuffies, who first steered
the Neds toward stardom with high-profile support slots. Mat acknowledges
the debt by calling them "people who know the right way to swear".
"Midlanders swear with more verve than anywhere else" agrees
Alex. Drummer Dan, a small woodland creature of 18 tender years, provides
a demonstration. "F*** it, I'm off to bed."
Twelve Hundred heaving Neds fans cram Cambridge's, cavernous, Corn Exchange
two nights later. Backstage, euphoria is rife over the midweek chart
position of 11 for 'Happy'. "Eleven" becomes tonight's catchphrase
- repeated frequently in dazed disbelief. But the Neds are not significantly
more popular than when they grazed the charts last year with 'Kill Your
Television', just infinitely more organised thanks to Sony's army of
stockists replenishing the parts Rough Trade couldn't reach. For 24-year-old
ex-dispatch rider, Tank, this runaway success is final vindication of
hitching his boys to a major label for six albums.
"I don't want to slag Rough Trade because they did their best:
but the distribution was a bleeding nightmare. Tank signed after protracted
legal negotiations, but he still encounters "plenty of creases"
in his relationship with Big Brother Sony. "Things they consider
to be little matters but I consider very important... I eat. breathe,
sleep and fart this band." An unavoidable situation when coordinating
your first full production tour, with £900 in wages distributed
daily amongst a tight team of full-time roadies and merchandise sellers.
Ned's Atomic' Dustbin are legendary for their T-shirts, marketing dozens
of designs over the last three years - shifting 100 at the Cambridge
gig alone! Last year's Reading festival was a swirling ocean of Neds
T-shirts emblazoned with the legend "We've talked about it... now
let's F***." Tank calculates this tour will break even with T-shirt
sales, but would lose £14,000 without - which might explain why
he disperses bootleggers at both Hemel Hempstead and Cambridge with
a (totemic) baseball bat! This man speaks softly but carries a bloody
enormous stick. "Your fans buy so many T shirts they can't afford
to buy any albums," jokes Muff Winwood — brother of Steve,
and Sony marketing chief - with just a hint of anxiety.
His mind is doubtless on the imminent Neds debut God Fodder, a surprisingly
deep and diverse collection which buries the band's Kartoon image under
an avalanche of groovy tunes; then throws an enormous party on its grave.
Muff has nothing to worry about. And nor have the Neds, judging by their
reception at Cambridge. Feeding off the joyous channelled energy of
the crowd, their performance is one long twang of elasticated energy
fuelled by terrace-chant anthems of life-affirming power. A brilliant
gig.
The high continues backstage, as former mentor Miles Hunt drops in for
a celebratory drink. The excellent day-glo sleeve artwork for God
Fodder is passed around and approved. Rat apologises for his
Hemel Hempstead huff, Mat radiates good health and Jonn emerges from
the dressing-room shower looking like Captain Sex. "Colonel Sex,"
he corrects. Then, after a pensive pause, "Bombardier General Sex".
But there are no fair maidens for the West Midlands Road Warriors to
ravish tonight, even though they attract what Jayne Houghlon calls "A
staggering" number of willing Ned-ettes. Their wild years are over,
insists Alex, girlfriend in tow. Ho hum...
In the lobby of Cambridge's plush Post House hotel, spirits are understandably
high. Jonn is already jugged, Mat is marinated and Rat is, well, rat-arsed.
What doubtless began as a sober, rational debate over the ethics of
bootlegging has consequently degenerated into a passionate shouting
match. "You walk out with four quid in your pocket, you can't afford
a real T-shirt and all you want is a souvenir of the gig" bellows
Rat. "That's all it is!"
Mat's natural philosophical bent is further fuelled by Jack Daniels.
"The trouble is that money comes into it, and money is dirty, it's
like religion. I can't understand why, in an enlightened society, it
has any relevance any more." The burden of sudden success and nouveau
riches have just struck Jonn, currently pulling in a princely £120
per-week. "Earning money is a responsibility. Because we earn money,
we make our gigs and our records better." Rat flares up, tackling
imaginary enemies. "We went into our contract and we fought our
f***ing hardest. They can't make us do anything! Our single's just charted,
which basically says any f***er can do it." Ever moderate and restrained,
Jonn outs the teething troubles with Sony down to "The generation
gap," and the assumption that all bands are to be marketed and
treated the same. "The test is whether our album is successful
enough for them to leave us alone," say Jonn.
Jonn's pessimism filters into his lyrics too, despite claims that songs
like 'What Gives My Son' and 'Happy' are universal rather than personal
statements. With alcoholic assistance, he admits to feeling cheated
of his youth by his parent's divorce and being vulnerable ever since.
"I've got 'Welcome' tattooed on my chest."
This is the serious side of krazy kartoon band Ned's Atomic Dustbin.
The sixth-form joke who hitched to the top in ragged second-hand-clothes
but now need to smarten up fast, whether their fans want it or not.
The low-tech Luddite cavemen of indie-pop now have to deal with chart
positions and bootlegging bandits. No wonder they are suffering a minor
identity crisis. "The reasons for being in a band have changed"
confesses Jonn. "When we signed, it did register that it was a
job, this is our life and how we earn money. Work is definitely what
has made the difference." "What the hell are we?" enquires
a pissed, puzzled Rat. "I don't think we've got an attitude at
all."
You are giggers without attitude, Rat. The Men From Un-cool. You're
also one of Britain's most exciting live bands with an exceptional debut
album under your mercifully unfashionable belts. If you do lose some
hard-core followers over precious notions of selling out, there are
enough straight forward pop fans out there to keep Ned's Atomic Dustbin
on the road forever.