Terminally Groovie

THE GOON SHOW

NED'S ATOMIC DUSTBIN
NORTHGATE ARENA, CHESTER

IS THIS REALLY WHAT YOU WANT?
It wasn't always this way. Amazing as it may seem, the world hasn't always revolved around fluorescent logos and floppy hair. Not so long ago, if you were into alternative music, it meant you were f***ed up, alienated, angry, twisted, a weirdo.
Tee-shirt millionaires Ned's Atomic Dustbin are not f***ed up. When bassist Mat tells us: "I've been fantasising about murder. And Satan. And suicide. I'm going to kill myself at some point in the future..." (MM 14/12/91), do you believe him? Actually, that isn't the point. Do Ned's Atomic Dustbin sound as though you should believe them?
The kids here aren't f***ed up either. The girls wear stripy tights, the boys wear half-mast shorts, they all wear ankle-length DMs, you can only tell them apart by slight variations in tee-shirt design. Being a Neds fan is the healthy thing to do if you're a socially-successful, fully-rounded teen, too old for Nintendo and too young to shave. It doesn't mark you out as a weirdo, it merely indicates you are not one of the Dancing Classes.
The tyranny of levity is upon us. Just examine the language used to defend the Neds: "brash", "energy", "enthusiasm", and I feel nauseous already. No-one's allowed to be serious any more (which is why, in completely different ways, Cranes and the Preachers have been so invigorating this year). Everything's accompanied by a self-effacing smile. It Ned's Atomic Dustbin reached for the metaphorical razorblade, the words carved into their arms would read "ONLY JOKING".
I came not to bury the Neds, merely to appraise them. Neds aren't the biggest band of their kind (see The Wonder Stuff) nor the worst (endless list), but probably the most typical. So what's it all about, this Scene That Cretinises Itself?
Northgate Arena Leisure Centre is easily the worst large venue I've ever seen, beating even Wembley into a poor second. There's no bar (after all, I'm one of the few over-18s here), leaving us nothing to do but scrutinise the "Sport For All" signs and basketball nets which hang above our heads. The wide security pit prevents the customary Niagara of diving bodies, so The Kids have to make do that dance where you with swing your hair around and shift your weight from one foot to the other like a drugged Mammoth while smiling good-naturedly at your friend. And the acoustics are hardly, erm, purpose-built. Matt reckons he was playing a second behind everyone else, Alex says "everything was f***ing shite", and Jonn "couldn't get into it at all". So i realise these aren't ideal conditions to see Neds do their thing.
But what is their thing? Um, they jump around a bit. Um, they do a bit of headbanging. Um, they generally Ned about. Um, that's it. The Neds are not unintelligent people: do they never think "why am I doing this?"
Musically, Neds have none of the latent instability you'd expect from a band with two bassists. They're just too lazy to go beyond the same four-chord progression used on every track on "God Fodder". (with the exception of the admittedly gorgeous "Grey Cell Green"). In fact, they sound exactly how you'd expect a bunch of kids who started out supporting the Stuffies (who in turn supported the Poppies - Birmingham, so much to answer for) to sound. They're too dull even to plagiarise creatively.
So this is it. This is the end of the road. The backdrop reads "BE SILENT. CONSUME. DIE." Isn't irony a fragile thing? But hey, maybe I should lighten up. I mean, this Pop Music thing - it's only a larf, innit?
SIMON PRICE