 |
 |
| The ‘We Love This Fucking Tour’ Tour Bristol Fleece 14.03.02. Ikara colt. Parkinsons. 80’s Matchbox B-line Disaster. Maybe in retrospect this Tour will be seen as one of the most important tours of 2002, the defining moment when the so-called ‘Scene With No Name’ burst from the underground, a legendary tour that people will swear through bitter clenched teeth that they were there. Or maybe it was just a fucking good proper rock ‘n’ roll gig and in 12 months time I wont remember that the 80’s Matchbox B-line Disaster ever existed. The night starts off in the pub. Paul from Ikara colt nicking our Marlboro Lights while earnestly recommending us books by Russian authors we’ve never heard of let alone can spell after how many drinks we’ve had. From the pub the action moved to the gig venue next door. I Notice the majority of the crowd is standing well back. Through fear, or maybe the fact that this to them is what seeing Andrew WK was for me – a kind of circus freak show, a need to see what the hell NME are on about this week. Well fuck them, the scene trendy wankers. This is not the Hives. 80’s Matchbox look like they belong in several different bands let alone music genres. Some people have tried labeling their noise, but I’m not even going to try. Opener ‘Morning Has Broken’ is a loud throb of psychotic energy, fueled by their front man’s 3-legged-scrapyard-mongrel howls. He spends most of the set staring into the stunned - but highly amused - crowd, while his leopard-print clad and badly Mohican’d bandmates create a sonic mash of whatever it is was they were playing. Something born of a terrible accident in a gene-splicing lab. I was a little apprehensive about standing so close to the stage after the last time I saw The Parkinsons. That would be the Carling Weekend last year, where I witnessed a gig so disordered and disgusting - yet brilliant – totally pissed and bollock-naked, the frontman straddling the barrier and the rest of the band thrashing out some kind of primordial punkmess, spit and pints flying at ONE IN THE AFTERNOON!!! I remember thinking that somehow in amongst all the nu-metal crap and safe Hundred-Reasons-ness I had witnessed some real rock ‘n’ roll, but I never thought I’d ever hear of them again. But there they were in front of me, a true testament to their do-or-die absolute unstoppable enthusiasm, not just to make REAL punk but to live it too. And this time they kept their pants on. Noticeably tighter this time, they hit-off with the shout-a-long pogoer ‘Long Way To Nowhere’ and then rip through further would-have-been-classic-in-’77 tracks off their mini-album with the same unrelenting, undeniable energy. Singer Afonso scampering off into the crowd then popping up to climb on the bar, tee-shirt stand and speaker stacks. They crash to the end of their set with all out punk-a-thon 'Scientist', an escaped nightmare from the wrong end of the punk years and fucking un-missable. Everyone knows the Manics have gone shit. And the only reason they keep peddling out crap in a half assed way is that there just isn’t anyone to successfully nail them in their coffin. Placebo are too anally absorbed, JJ72 have the attitude but lack songs and King Adora are just too fucking ugly. But at last there is a true contender to the Manics’ intelligent punk crown. Ikara colt are fucking IT!! The band has also tightened up their set since the Carling weekend. Gone is the uncertain stumbling through tracks, instead the band take to the stage with the clear intent of raising a riot. And they nearly succeed. Their sound is essentially linear, skittering guitars, deadpan hurled vocals, hyperactive drum rolls. But they manage to instill a vicious manic energy into that basic structure that bands like Sum41 and Blink 182 only wish they had beneath their faux-punk studio sheen exterior. ‘One Note’ and ‘Escalate’ rip the crowd up, singer Paul yelling “COME ON COME ON!!” at them with menacing conviction. Things momentarily slow down with ‘City Of Glass’, a Joy Division-esque nihilist stutter of drawled vocals and bare guitars. Not to be outdone by Afonso, Paul periodically throws himself into the crowd (whacking your writer in the head with his mic in the process) while drummer Dom pistons away like a malfunctioning robot on the verge of short-circuiting. Believing in the punk ethic of short set = good (hey the Strokes do it too) they finish after only 45 minutes of thrashing with ‘Sink Venice’, it’s brilliant rant along chorus of “SINK VENICE SINK!!” accompanying the gleeful pogoing at the front. WHY the vast majority of the crowd is STILL standing at the back stroking their muso chins I don’t know. Useless fuckers would’ve been better off at home pondering the complex musicianship of the last polythene wrapped ACOUSTIC compilation while trying not spill wine on their fucking pristine Strokes tee shirt… *ahem* sorry. Ikara colt beat the living shit out of any other British band today because they crucially know it’s got nothing to do with the music and absolutely everything to do with the right fucking attitude. Defining tour or just a proper rock ‘n’ roll gig then? I’d say both. Rachel. |