THE HORRORS LIVE: MAZBETH GETS THE HORRORS!!

MAZBETH GETS THE HORRORS!!

The smell hit me like a bale of hay to the face, or maybe a dead weight snooker ball to the dangling scrotum. No matter how many times I come to these stinkholes I never get used to that vile stench. I wondered to myself ‘can a smell really leave a lining on the oesophagus?’
My friend, of course, appears unfazed. In his crazed state, his senses and thoughts are closed to all but basic survival necessities. That and the ongoing quest to get as high as his mind will allow. Maybe higher? The flavour of the air, the bile and the stale beer, is merely a turn on for him. A free hit. Like a mask full of Vicks’ Vapo Rub to an early nineties rave mule.
I have chosen the wrong night to wear Desert boots. The flat soles causing some form of suction to this floor. Filthy, treacle tar.
We made our way to the fashionista geek in the ticket booth. We showed him our free press tickets and he let us through. The little shitbag thought we were one of ‘them,’ ‘on the inside,’ as if we were to laugh at the poor souls who had worked all week to be able to afford to come and be entertained in this place. This shit place. “Well fuck you and your cardigan.” I wanted to say. I accept the privileges of writing for a magazine - the free tickets and train fare - but I never wish to be associated with those Scenester bastards.
Our press tickets worked this time, but thirty minutes earlier, when they should’ve been at their most powerful, inspiring, and above all useful, we were left with our pants around our ankles and our thumbs firmly shoved up our arses….
….On a pointless, cold, blowing, drenched, midweek, November evening we were queuing with the uncastrated swine to get into this damn gig. Now, I defy any man, whatever his moral or social leanings, even Billy Bragg himself, to not use his resources, in our case these rotten passes, to ease himself to the front of a turgid queue, and request, with humble dignity and grace, to be let in ahead of the herd.
Maybe it was my unconfident arrogance or my friends stupor that made the ape on the door react like he did. Maybe it was just the apes lust, I’m unsure. I would love to tell you what it was that he said, but I fear, that if by some miracle, that big bald bastard should read this, he would not see that he has been portrayed as a charicature of a mentally defective, knuckle dragging shyster of a primate, but would regale in reading aloud his own words to his fellow fuckers and how he made two honest, good men, turn around at his cheaply leather clad and tin buckled feet, and make their way back down the queue. Past the depressingly fringed, unwashed T-shirt wearing, ball clenchingly tight jean suffering, skinny ankle and long shoe’d, inadequate, worthless, expensive, degenerate, sloppy drunk pricks and their attractive girlfriends, and take their place at the back of the queue. The ape had done us, and he knew that we knew he knew….
….But now, we were in, and we needed drink. My friend offered this round and I kindly took advantage. The bar was busy. Three, or four rows deep. Its hard to count the rows in such a frenzy. Fortunately my friend has excellent skills in dealing with crowds and getting to a bar. Those poor bastards are in for it. Oh shit. There he goes. An uncaged bird eating beast in a village park aviary.
Now would be a good time to tell you about my friend. He is an English Welsh-Jew. He claims it’s merely an act for the authorities and those after his accountable money. but I think that’s what an English Welsh-Jew would say?
Sober, he is a stand up man. A real locals man. Solid driving skills, always a kiss for his mother and a firm handshake for his fathers’ friends. I may have even run a few errands with the fucker? I believe that man, that good man, is named and christened Gareth.
I cant be sure of the name of the annihilated, inebriated, sky high, K-Holed, sexually aggressive schitzo being I am with tonight. There are rumours and muted musings it could be Mazbeth, but since no person, no group, no decent, coherent citizen has ever called for him to join the party or request any attention at all from the rabid beast, his name has never been truly known. Only the tattoo of the circumcised dragon on his exposed lower gut tells me it is the Welsh-Jew.
He was here to ease my nerves.
I waited for him to return from the bar before I made my first toilet. I knew he would not be best pleased with this decision.
“Why didn’t you go while I was at the fucking bar?” he spewed and foamed. His words and voice would lead you to believe he was angry, but his face was that of an emotionally hurt child. This was now a very dangerous place for me to be.
"We would’ve lost position. Here by the sound man is our best hope of covering this damn gig. After all, that is why we are here.” and with that sudden sense of responsibility now heaped upon him like an autumn’s worth of bull dung, I headed for the toilet.
I beat my way through the whores and slackasses who had formed around the Gents like a crippling dose of Crabs on the stinking arse of a malnourished Panda. I pulled a god awful and unwanted crashing manoeuvre through the door of the toilet. I was greeted by….[Burt Randolph goes on to describe in minute, graphic and unprintable detail what he witnessed. From the general ambience of the latrine, to the taunts, snorts, yells, raised hells, deals and deviance, and intolerable, nerve shredding, drawn out blasts of the hand drier. Ed]
….I returned to our vantage point refreshed, focused, alive and ready for work. YES YOU BASTARD!!
Mazbeth was nowhere to be seen. The tri-breed had deserted me in the field. I wondered if that kick in the balls I’d left him with was too much? But I know he is made of sterner stuff than that….
This meant one of two things. Either I would be forced to endure this whole jaunt alone, jumpy, paranoid and twisted. (Incidentally, this is not a drug induced state of paranoia. It is something I also have to face in my most sober of moments. I have an irrational fear that people think I am alone. When I see an innocent bystander, I ask myself, uncontrollably, instinctively , “are they alone?” so why should they not be thinking the same of me? A terrible, spiralling, dark angle to be coming from mentally.)
Either that or Mazbeth is roaming this place, completely ripped, ready to unleash his depraved urges onto a slug of a filthily willing, juiced up Devotchka. Real, true, shallow and depraved destruction. Jesus, now that would be worth covering.
BUT I am here to work. I am being paid and I am a Professional.
Just one more bar side altercation and a toilet….
….Once again I return to the vantage point. The Base. The Safe House. From here I am beginning to feel good. Secure. King lion. The big fuck off dominant male of the pride. Standing tall, one huge paw draped over the pink, fleshy, shredded carcass of a sorry Deer.
Right at that point, right as I was riding the rare crest of a high psychological wave, a piss filled glass missile shattered at my feet. My anus nearly exploding. Now where’s your fucking lion??
The last of the support bands are hurriedly packing away their gear - unnecessarily huge, heavy Fender amplifiers, snakes of leads, guitars crashing to the floor with sickening cracks. I feel for these bands. Ill tempered sound men and uninterested punters. Why do they put themselves through it? Its for the kick. The Dream. That moment you are alive and doing what you know you want to. Not even the lust filled arms of a fervent lover could drag those boys from the stage. True, raw, underestimated passion. Fair play to the little psyche rock turds.
Now fuck off and on with the show!
….Yatta Yatta Yatta (as my Mazbeth might say,) blah blah blah, more shit, more drunks, more drinks….
Finally, the headlining band walk on stage. No swagger, no bravado. The walk merely a means of getting to their instruments. It was The Horrors.
A band I knew nothing of or wanted to know anything of until I read a review comparing their latest album, Primary Colours, to greats such as The Jesus And Mary Chain, My Bloody Valentine and even German noise makers Neu. From these optimistic references I bought the album and yes, I can confirm, it is good. But now this is live. This is what many would say - ‘it is all about.’
No fucking around. Guitars on, drummer seated, and in. Slow and deceptively fucking loud. The growing, eerie church synth machine shocking the over excitable teens at the front. Calming them the fuck down. Scaring the living crap out of the little nipple sucklers.
Mirror’s Image builds like the reversal of death. The calm serene sounds with a heartbeat kick drum keeping you hanging on in bliss. A repeated keyboard riff snags my consiousness and brings me back round. The rest of the band stand, fidgeting, waiting for their cue. There it is. A blast. A rush. A colossal distorted chord. If I had brought my elephant net I could’ve caught half of the front row before they slammed against the back wall. Immediately, Faris Badwan morphs into Richard Butler of the Psychedelic Furs. A fine band, but Butler’s influence is cling film. Although fuck it, it works. The guitar is also very much that of Kevin Shields, bent and distorted into nauseating drones. Beautiful. All these sounds, the sickening guitar, Badwans frustrated drawl, a straight solid rhythm, and relentless synths and keys, build to a huge, ear splitting mantra before fading to an end.
Three Decades. Again the bent guitar sounding huge but this time fronting a more agitated drum beat. The Keys like being mauled by a Helta-Skelta. Badwan paces the stage, reminiscent of a delinquent waiting to give the headmaster some real shit. The whole thing is like getting mugged by Suicide on the last night of a deserted, blowing, New Jersey fairground. Suddenly the music breaks. A chance to take a look behind me, only to be greeted by David Lynch and the sounds of Eraserhead. Squealing steel, the drums and chiming keys chasing me to the end of the icy dark pier. As I reach the edge, about to plunge into the heavy waves I’m hauled back by Badwans call, “Forget your regrets.” I throw up on the pinball machine.
Primary Colours, and Richard Butler is on stage. Surely. My eyes and ears no longer working in tandem. The ill fated fairground trip is back, but this time only from memory, not first hand. A more pleasant and refreshed sound but still the same. Dare I say a more Eighties Indie sound? Yes I do. The Cure, The Smiths, Joy Division even Depeche Mode. Still no sign of The Jesus And Mary Chain though? Where are they? The only references I can hear are the fizzing guitars and feedback, and as we all know, as soon as that happens, you are on Mary Chain turf. They say.
To be fair the rest of the set goes much the same. Some high points and not so high points, but mainly high points. Lots more demented but skillful guitar work, more of Badwan’s petulant, gloomy drawls and a few bits of German drumming.
Despite my unenthusiastic tone, this music truly is explosive at times. Listen to Scarlet Fields. Listen to Sea Within A Sea. Listen to the depth. Its all there, writhing in your earphones. Making hard soft love to your insides. Just trust me, buy the album and go see them you idle misfit. If you like any of the mentioned, mainly eighties bands, then you’re in luck - something of that sound has made mainstream. Easy access for you sloppy media studies layabouts.
Mazbeth? Where the fuck….? One more and I’m off. I ordered a good short, washed down with two odorous but cold beers. Something to give me the strength and bravery to face this terrible November weather. Outside, at this time of year, is no place for a decent man.
The sweat drenched crowd began to disperse. Spilling through the make shift barriers and out into the skunking streets. Hysterical squeals from the boys, and girls on fruitless, sexual missions.
As the floor emptied, there he was. Drain hair in the plug hole as the stagnant water of a Sunday League full back’s bath drained away, defiantly.
I gave him a quick, sharp, loud blast in my best Chief Brody voice, “You Son-of-a-Bitch!” He looked pleased to see me. Holy shit. Grinning, pulsating, sodden, and eternally pleased. “Where the fuck have you been?” I politely asked, like a dingo to a rotting corpse.
“Oh man! You should’ve been there man! Why didn’t you come in! Man the young poon! They fucking love it!” he gargled and yelled like a victorious pest. Then, as quick as a blown bulb, his face straightened, “Lets get out of here. I’m getting the fear.” His words gave me the fear. What the hell has he done? Who has he touched in places no other man has yet to touch? This damn pervert is a menace.
I agreed and we made a direct exit.
We walked with purpose, kidding ourselves out of being drunk, straight to the train station. We waited for our train. We boarded our train. We rode the train. We got off the train. We flagged down a taxi. This is the way I wish to remember it.
In the taxi, Mazbeth decided he must make some nice destruction, so I rolled the fat pig out at the seediest end of town. A big, heavy inflammation of a man to kick out of a taxi. “Open the fucking door you fucking stupid bastard!” I burst at him. He innocently fumbled for the handle. By chance his fat man wing caught it and he fell out. Partly. His heavy legs and arse still wedged. A few firm, positive and heavy kicks with the soles of my Desert boots dislodged the mess. As soon as the suspension sprang back to the regular ride height the driver sped off, clearly not amused with the dismount. I was left in the back on my own. Make conversation. Apologise for your friends behaviour. No, it would’ve been an empty apology, and at this time of night, in this weather, I don’t want to fuck off the taxi driver to the point of abandonment.
It all washed over though by the time we stopped at the next red light and I climbed into the front seat. The rain on the windows multiplying the stop light by millions. No bad vibes in here anymore. Soothing late night, none descript radio. Nice. Though the gravely mumbles soon became too soothing, sending me off.
“Got any cd’s?” I asked, breaking the silence and trying to hide my imminent wretch.
The driver nodded to the glove box and I pulled out his stash. He leafed through the wallet, reading the faces of the copied cd’s in the passing, momentarily illuminating, orange street lights. He found the cd and fed it in. Track 2. Van Morrison. Moondance. The first verse passed with no word from either of us, just my dad’s mocking grin. My answering smile told him I knew, his smile widening, shifting as seamlessly as his gear changes into an audible chuckle. He struck my leg with the back of his hand. “Good lad! Van the Man! The Voice. The Little Fat Bastard!”