scans.
OPPORTUNITY KNOCKERS
When Ned's Atomic Dustbin decided they'd take to the road, they came
over all altruistic and advertised in MM for local bands to support
them. JIM ARUNDEL toddles along to hear some of the contenders.
Pics: STEPHEN SWEET
"WHO ARE WE TO JUDGE, BASICALLY?", ASKS SINGER JONN with
admirable candour, as another terrible demo tape from another band in
search of a gig is tossed aside.
"Whose poxy idea was this, anyway?" mumbles another Ned, as
the dubious skills of Sideboard To Mars are given an airing at a cruel
volume. No one owns up.
It seemed like a wonderful idea. Short of a second support act for their
24-date tour, the Neds hit on the wheeze of hiring a local combo for
each night. They advertised in MM for demo tapes. They drowned in them.
Then sorted the damn things into piles, one for each date. Finally comes
the tricky bit. Some poor bugger has to listen to them. All 400 of them.
So here I am. Well, actually, the Neds are doing the listening, but
in my capacity as Advance editor, I thought it would be handy to sit
in, in the (stupid, stupid, why am I so fucking STUPID?) hope
that I might stumple across The Future Of Popular Music in the process.
What a shifterbranes. Not once did I ask myself the simple question:
"Just how good are bands that want to play third on the bill to
Ned's Atomic Dustbin going to be?". Idiot.
You can probably guess the answer, readers. For a start, they'll have
names like Pelican Retort, Leaving Nutwood, Donald Elsey's Big Decision,
Fruitbowl, Baboon Frenzee, Attention McVities and The Coconut Dog. You
can feel your brain cells packing their bags just reading that lot,
can't you? You should thank Christ that you didn't have to listen to
them as well.
The Neds and I managed about 40 tapes before we reverted to mouth breathing,
monosyllabic speech, wetting ourselves where we stood and asking for
Farley's Rusks to be delivered. Amazingly, they managed to find at least
six bands they didn't mind giving a gig. Some because they were actually
listenable, and some because they were unspeakably bad and they fancied
a laugh. I remember it as if it were yesterday.
(Cue wobbly image denoting start of flashback..)
YOUR reporter arrives in time to see the band flinging tape mailers
into the air for Stephen Sweet's photos. Unfortunately, the tapes are
still inside and they'd all been neatly sorted earlier.
"My lovely piles," groans Tank, the Neds' infectiously upbeat
manager, when he sees the carnage. There's nothing worse that having
your piles tampered with.
"How's it going Stephen," I ask.
"Fine, fine."
"They all behaving?"
"Yeah, except for him..." He points out Mat, "... the
grumpy one." Talk about "if looks could kill". Bassist
Mat is wearing a sneer that could find him gainful employment in an
abattoir, humanely slaughtering cattle. He doesn't like having his picture
taken. While the session continues I ask their press person to point
out who's who, just to make sure I've got the names correct. Pugh, Pugh,
Barney, McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble, "... and the grumpy one's Mat".
So, tell me, Neds, what do you look for in the ideal Third On The Bill?
"A ludicrous name is important," says Tank.
"Bands with a gimmick," replies Alex, bassist II. "A
lead singer who's a foetus, or something."
"Any band with someone that dresses up as a large wafer biscuit,"
decides Jonn.
And so it begins. First, we sift through the vinyl entries. The chaps
are impressed by the sleeve of one single called "No Minute Warning".
The band's guitarist is covered in blood and pulling a noose taut around
his neck. Unfortunately, the record is broken. All eyes are on Mat.
"Here's one Mat prepared earlier." So, instead, first up is
Gentle Ihor's Devotion, a band fronted by a man with a pathological
desire to get starkers and parade his, er, petite cock.
"He's got a massive... local following," notes drummer Dan.
The song's called "Naked" and it throbs menacingly. "Not
bad, that," says Tank.
"Bit of nudity. Fair enough." Jonn disagrees. "Hey, we're
a family band!" Nevertheless, a pile marked, 'Pending, gets kit
off', is set aside especially.
Company For Henry (sic..) have a song called "Do Nice Things".
Tank: "Pretty heavy, these guys. 'Drums, percussion and anarcho
angst by Paul'. One of them apparently has a nose 'like the bloke from
Mega City Four'. Should go far".
The tune begins with some particularly drippy guitar.
All: "Boo!"
Tank: "Give it time."
The track lurches forward with stiff, retarded drumming and 'evolution'
is quickly rhymed with 'revolution'.
It's awful. And is swiftly ripped from the turntable.
Mat (grumpily): "That was shit."
Alex (incredulously): "How did they get that on a
record?"
This is going to be tough.
Tank: "Basically, anyone that makes us smirk or has an interesting
name gets the gig. Where's The Muppet Rabies gone?"
Jonn (after only two records): "Go on, then. I don't care
anymore."
Passing swiftly over The Whores (motto: "We'll use sex if we
have to"), it's the turn of Tribute To Nothing, a four-piece
from Malvern who are all under 16. Lead singer Sam Turner is 12. "He
looks six," says Dan, studying the photo supplied.
Mat (grumpily): "Twelve? Give'em a gig. We can ritually
slaughter them afterwards."
The song has the king of punkpop momentum that you expect from pre-pubescents.
There are massive cheers when the unbroken vocal starts up. The song
pauses for Sam to sing the words, "pack of lies", in
a pleasingly snotty manner. Jonn double-takes. "They're in! They're
in!" he cries. "Tribute To Nothing score a direct hit after
only 20 seconds!".
The gig at Gloucester is theirs.
The Cymbalines get 40 seconds airtime.
Jonn: "That wasnt' too offensive, actually."
Tank: "Not a very good name, though."
Jonn: "Who are we to talk? We're on thin ice there."
Mat (grumpily): "They can piss off."
Dan: "I hate people who can spell Leicester. Cos I can't."
Headbuff's "Dead Elvis" is on red vinyl. For Tank, this is
almost reason enough to give them the gig at Brixton. There's 20 seconds
of feedback followed by an intense crunching and grinding (Headbutt
have *four* bassists) interspersed with bloodcurdling yells.
Jonn: "That's all the hate in their bellies, isn't it?"
Mat: "I like this. It's quite poppy."
Headbutt totally split the jury. A pile marked, "Pending, Bloody
Nora", is set aside especially.
It's time to start work on the cassettes. First choice has to
be "Hot And Hard" by Mike Phillips, mainly because none of
us can believe the picture on the box of a bepermed lounge lizard with
female hands appearing under his jacket and caressing his chest. The
tape features songs entitled "Electric Lady", "Centrefold
Woman" and "Goodbye Darlin". It is excruciating.
Alex: "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God."
Jonn: "He just sang, 'red hot loving', then. We can't have
that."
Rat: "Is this a bloke or a goat singing?"
Mat: "What a fucking dick."
Tank: "I think that's the idea."
For Mike Phillips, opportunity stops.
You don't want to know about "Violent Grimace" by Trumpet
Worm, but there's no booing or hanging the DJ when Baboon Frenzee hit
the stereo. This is taken by Tank to be a positive response.
Jonn: "Inoffensive. I'd like to hear 'Goodbye Darlin' by Mike Phillips
again. I also want Headbutt's babies."
Next: Repeater, who have enclosed a helpful letter with their tape:
"I know the first track sounds a bit like Hawkwind, as many people
tell us when we play it live, so we added some blatant wibbly wibbly
bits."
Alex: "Give it a spin. At least they've written on unlined paper."
Rat (impressed): "Oh, yeah!"
Jonn: "The wibbles make all the difference."
The wibbles sound like they were taken from a BT recorded message. Vern
the roadie goes to take the tape off.
All: "Wait for the singing!"
A minute later, we can't work out if anyone's singing or not.
John: "Perhaps he's shy."
Mat (grumpily): "The less singing the better."
Rat (decisively): "Yeah. We'll have these. Give'em Tonbridge."
So far, Dan's main criterion has been that any band employing that
drum pattern - you know, the skippety, syncopated one popular 18 months
ago - is immediately disqualified. He's sick of playing it every night
and doesn't want to hear it "just after my dinner". Three
bands in a row fall foul of this rule before we even find out their
names.
Vern announces the next one: "This is Love Juice and a song called
'Starfucker'". Uproar. Much hilarity. Especially when the opening
is a delicately plucked acoustic guitar.
Rat: "That's like something from 'Tickle On The Tum'."
Suddenly the song goes bonkers.
All: "Yeah! Yeah! Fucking ace!"
The singing starts. It's horrible.
Jonn: "I'm starting to have doubts now."
The bit where the song stops for a line that sounds like 'ride me
cowboy' is the clincher. No joy for Love Juice."
Slug are deemed too much of a Stooges rip off, likewise Oh Mother vis
a vis The Sundays. Cyborg Sex Babies unfortunately use that
drum rhythm.
"There it is again!" screams Dan. Bye.
Kerosene have, in Jonn's opinion, "a good-looking tape". They
want Manchester. "They can fucking keep it an' all," says
Mat. Grumpily.
The song is called "Sink". "Hmmm," muses Jonn. "They
can play. And it is a good-looking tape. Give them a prize."
Rat is ecstatic at the heavy metal wail that introduces the next contender.
(I think it's by Godlike Bass.) John has other ideas. "It's brimming
over with shitey whistlers. Totally illegal. Naughty boys."
A shitey whistler is Nedslang for a musical note common in metal guitar
wank. File under Vern's boot.
The Firecharmers are after the Liverpool slot. Their tape begins with
the theme from Rainbow.
Jonn: "Ten out of ten for catching the attention."
It's George (of George and Zippy) singing. Dan reckons it's alright.
Alex thinks it's horrid. Jonn notices that they've included a middle-eight
in the song, and that swings it in their favour.
We're promised "brilliant hardcore cyberpunk in the vein of Ministry
and The Young Gods" next, courtesy of Toxic Shock Syndrome. The
name gets a roar of approval. "Naughty!" cries Jonn. The music
turns out to be oddly two-chord and Carter-like.
Jonn: "That's not like Ministry. That's like Carter. Cartery".
Mat (grumpily): "One Carter's enough, thanks."
When the singing starts, there are cries of "Off!" and "Ugh".
Then we realise that we're listening to the wrong band. This is Ugly
Music Show. Quite. Toxic Shock Syndrome turn out to be an all-girl band.
But still not much like Ministry. They appear to be singing about Myra
Hindley. Mat puts his foot down. "We can't have that." It
didn't sound too bad to me.
Andalula's Locket sound like Spinal Tap playing "Smells Like Teen
Spirit" with a female vocalist. Their tape comes complete with
a note from the Ned's tee-shirt salesman: "This is bloody awful."
Alex: "If Phil thinks it's awful... well."
Dan: "It's that fucking rhythm again!" Settled.
Red Ash & The Love Commandoes sound just like you'd imagine the
band of prancing ninnies in the st-st-st-Studio Line ads. There are
calls for the return of Mike Phillips. Then we suffer Chegwin (give
me strength, Lord). "If you want to send them some 'Chegmail',
I have the address," says Tank, reading the enclosed leaflet. Next
up, Cow. "Fuck me, we're going to be here all year," moans
Mat, tether's end ahoy. Then Pipehead ("Great look-stroke-sound"
- Jonn) and Snigger. There is somebody insane in Snigger. That is the
only explanation. Heavy wah-wah guitar leads into something like a kids'
TV theme. Sample lyric: "There's lots of characters to meet/So
come on in, put on your feet". We cannot believe it. "That's
ace!" cried Dan, just before the fit started. Mousehole, Pugwash
and Sludgebuster are all quickly dispatched. Endless Drone's tape gets
a bit longer while we gasp at the ear-shredding treble of the mix. Big
in the bat hit parade, this one.
Mat: "It sounds like a legion of nuns drying their hair."
Jonn: "Oh dear."
"Very poor grasp of EQ this lot," says Alex, as another gust
of tinnitus guitar whooshes in.
Mat: "Give'em a gig and we can take a bag of wet washing along."
Enough is enough. Several of us have scaled the walls and begun waving
white flags. Tank insists on one more selection and slips The Big Window
from Preston onto the stereo. Drum sound of the decade this one. The
worst recorded kit in history, featuring a huge, resonant pronk from
one of the tom-toms that's four times as loud as the rest of the track.
We're transfixed and are some way into the song before anyone realises
what it is.
Dan: "It's 'Kill Your Television!"
Yes, the Neds' classic is transformed into a comic masterwork. The tom-tom
is hilarious. Each one of the famous pauses heralds an inadvertently
silly noise. Each one is greeted with increasing uproar and delight.
Jonn: "They do it better than us, anyway."
But wait. There's a tom-tom solo. The speakers invert and the
cabs rattle.
Dan: "Fucking hell!"
Mat (immensely cheered): "Superb drum sound. Raving."
Alex: "Best ever Neds cover. Ever."
Significantly, they are not given a gig.
It occurs to me that some of the lucky bands are bound to be overwhelmed
by the 2,000-seater venues that the Neds will be playing.
They'll shit themselves.
"That's the idea," says Mat, gleefully. "It's character
forming. Like National Service, only quicker."
"We'll be giving them helpful hints," reveals Jonn. "Like,
'face the front'."
"Or, 'call to the guy at the back if you can't hear yourselves
in the monitors'," adds Alex, mischievously. "And, 'don't
worry, because there won't be anyone there when you go on anyway'."
"Severe naivety should be standard," is Jonn's survival tip.
"That's the reason we got on. Because we didn't realise that we
were so crap."
"We never sent off demos because they were too appalling,"
adds Mat.
"We never achieved anything with demos. We got people to come and
see us and, if they didn't, we said, 'Sod you, then'." says Jonn.
"It's sad that for most of these people this is the best chance
they've got."
"They should get a nice job, a decent haircut and a smart shirt,"
concludes Mat, smiling sweetly.
"We'll listen to the other 360 tapes tomorrow," says Tank.
'Not Sleeping Around', the Neds' new single, is out now on Furtive