(W&H caught these sets: The Aliens @ Club Fandango (The Purple Turtle), Mornington Crescent Larrikin Love @ The Electric Ballroom, Camden Humanzi @ The Underworld, Camden The Pipettes @ the G Lounge)
Stepping out into the hazy smog that hangs over Camden like, erm, hazy smog, the W&H hack - who was at the time battling with an addiction to romantic novels - wrapped her arms around her shivering frame in the cold, and made her way to the G Lounge to collect her plan for the evening.
The atmosphere was tense, she could feel the electricity of anticipation prickling on her skin. She didn't quite know what to expect. "How can one see so many bands in such a short space of time? And with so many queues?" she pondered to herself, thoughtfully.
With pen in mouth, she sighed, looking at the list of performances, which included such delectable delights as THE YOUNG KNIVES, SHIT DISCO, the rather dashing AKIRA THE DON, and a surprise appearance from DIRTY PRETTY THINGS and SUPERGRASS, plus the option of having it large afterwards at various parties until 4 am for those with more stamina than sense.
"What to do?" she mused out loud, as she was approached by a tall, handsome youth who would have been all the more attractive if it wasn't for the heavy eye-liner, multiple piercings, and black leather trench-coat. "You want to go see MUMM-RA. I like them so much it makes me feel sick," he growled huskily. She was torn, follow the mysterious leather-clad stranger, or wait for the W&H photographer to turn up and see the Young Knives. She opted to wait.
Unfortunately the queue to get in to see the Young Knives was far too big, so it was down to the Purple Turtle to see THE ALIENS, on account of Robin Jones and John Maclean of the Beta Band being in them. Big mistake that was. First off, the writer's phone batteries ran out, truly a disaster in the making. Fortunately, the house sound engineer (who was dark and handsome with flecks of silver in his otherwise thick black mane) was her night in shining armour, or "knight in shining amour", lending her a charger and whispering the immortal words into her ear, "This band spent half of the sound check fucking about like idiots, no wonder they sound like a group of roadies."
Feeling like she was observing a college rock band doing cheap Hendrix licks, and wondering how much they had paid the audience to cheer at them, she gave consideration to the fact that the lyrics to their single "I am a Robot Man" sounded like "I am a Rollmop Herring". That, and the truly awful rapping and bizarre electro-dancing going on. Apart from the obligatory die-hard fans going ballistic at the front, the general feeling from the crowd was that of stunned disbelief.
After the Alien's shameless bout of pub rock, the writer headed up back to Camden for the mighty LARRIKIN LOVE, who wowed onlookers and the mob of sweaty, manly, steaming moshers, with their Pouges-inspired, bluegrass take on punk music. Sounding like a homogeny of The Specials, Guns n Roses, and The Levellers (well, they had a fiddle player, but you couldn't hear him), their energy was truly infectious, and Miko Larrikin (vocals) looked every inch the dishy rock star in his satin yellow jacket, skinny jeans, and pointy shoes. The W&H writer felt the need to sit down for a while to fan herself after bearing witness to such flamboyance, such charisma, such a mass of hair fraggling. Unfortunately, in order to get to see the next band on time, the writer had to say goodbye to the darling Larrikin Love and move on. With a pebble on her heart, she dusted herself off and looked towards the next act.
Stepping into the Underworld, deep in the bowels of Camden Town, the floor was smothered in a gooey black substance, and the room was full of men. Wearing black. With beards. Lost in a sweaty reverie, the young (please note the heavy use of poetic license) writer was in a state of bliss until an enthusiastic tyke belted past, yelling "This is the shit, so get used to it!", coining the general atmosphere of the place.
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Dublin-based rockers, HUMANZI, strutted onto the stage looking as though they'd spent the afternoon in the company of Pete Doherty's stylist. Except for the lack of trilby hats. And smack. Probably. Anyway, their music is dirty, visceral rock that makes onlookers weak at the knees. The bassist was the king of cheesy poses, and all members wielded their guitars (and drum sticks) around as though they were being electrocuted. Their playing was as tight as their jeans - which incidentally showed off their taut thighs and muscular yet skinny rippling legs. Fair enough, like most bands playing this evening, they are carbon copies of every other band at the moment, or their earlier counterparts from the late 70s early 80s. But they still rocked.
After a climatic and earth shattering performance (there were quite a few people snogging in the mosh pit, there must have been something in the air), it was up to the G Lounge to catch THE PIPETTES (not to mention their rather superb backing band, THE CASSETTES), mainly because they are boss, but also because there was no hope of getting to see the Dirty Pretty Things or Supergrass - most smaller venues had been operating a one-in-one-out basis pretty much all evening. The Pipettes turned out to be a very good choice in the end anyway - they were spanktastically marvellous.
Part DooWap-power-punk act, part Actionette-esque dance troupe, these three lovely ladies had literally all the boys in the room eating out of the palms of their hands. You have the "raunchy" one, the "sensible" one and the one who looks like a "librarian", how could they fail to ensnare the indie boysters into their polka-dotted grasp? Most of their songs sound like they could have been written by Toni Basil, but in itself that is bloody marvellous, and they pelted us with a good and proper feel-good performance. The Pipettes is the band that every girl wishes that she had been in - their songs so infectious that even the beefy bouncers were wagging their fingers and shuffling their feet, telling us how our "kisses are wasted on them".
So that was it, There was the option of going to the party at Koko's afterwards, but frankly, after all that walking and queuing, with little time for drinking, it was time to head back. If gig-goers fancied a carefree night of happily staggering from one venue to the next, then they'd have more chance of that happening at Whitby Folk Festival. Even on a mission, without drinking time (wait, theres always time for drinking time), seeing three of four bands in the evening was pushing it. And to plonk oneself in one venue for the evening to see the bands there totally defeats the object of the event. Saying that, the quality of the music was top, and the atmosphere banging. A bloody good night all in all. Sigh.
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