| It’s a welcome, of sorts,
to a certain sort. But also a kind of subconscious warning, to the majority. Dominic
Masters, part fresh-faced Johnny Rotten, part pretend-Cockney outsider bit
part in Byker Grove, is explaining in stumpy syllables how they’ve had some trouble
with the guestlist, they’ve done their best but they’ve only managed to get so
many in. What’s notable about this though is that he’s bypassing the modest swathe
of pretentious fashionistas and anonymous industry klingons supping free Japanese
beer before him and talking directly to his adopted brethren, his audience, who
are initially hidden out of sight but scurry audience-centre from the moment familiar
chord structures summon them like a plague, pied-piperesque. There’s no doubting
whose party this is. We were perplexed at The Others’ billing beforehand,
nothing changes now we’re here – a pre-opening bash for The Marquee’s new Leicester
Square residence thrown by guitar manufacture giants Gibson and some faux-anarchic
fashion house called Buddhist Punk, as part of London Fashion Week. Quite. And
jammed in between some second rate Reef support band who probably have pictures
of Dodgy in heart-shaped trinkets under their pillows, and some cringeworthy Aussie
rock abomination, the Home & Away Cooper Temple Clause if you will. An audience
is an audience though and tonight alone, aside from their previous publicised
misdemeanours, they’re after ownership of London – they scamper off to play the
launch of yet another new venue, Koko (shithole formerly known as the Camden Palace),
before the night’s out too. Following the introduction they flip a switch
and it starts. Dominic is bounding back and forwards, as is the tight fluffy mop
sprouting from his head, mouthing the imaginary words “bah bah baah bah baaaah!”
over and over, which he does on more than one occasion tonight, because they just
fit, over absolutely everything. A minority mosh-pit acts up like it’s the majority,
crowd-surfers failing to grasp the basic physics of the sport, a girl is dragged
deliriously kicking and screaming from a speaker stack by security (who amusingly
try to reason her down initially) and there’s the inevitable mass stage invasion
for high-ace centre-piece ‘This Is For The Poor’, leaving those not affiliated
staring agog/nervous/mesmerised from behind their beer bottles. It’s rusty
trampoline-punk with Carter USM, the Sex Pistols and S*M*A*S*H swinging from branches
of its family tree, but though uncomplicated no two moments ever seem quite the
same due to the fabulously riotous energy billowing constantly from somewhere
amidst the shambles. There is some modicum of style edging out, or trying to at
best, largely down to angular tearaway lines from bassist Johnny, the big brute
of a neglected Robert Smith waxwork under hot lights that he is. You get the feeling
there has to be a method to the mayhem somehow, some consideration, some intelligence,
some form, but that that’s not wasted where instinct will do. I mean, talking
about long term prospects would seem futile, they are kinda shit, but that’s hardly
the point now is it. Relevant sites:
http://www.poptones.co.uk/bands/the_others.htm
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2004©
October - December 2004- News Archive | |
|
