Where to start?
Well, I might as well begin at the beginning, lets say on Friday. I’ve got no money and as a result I’ve decided that Roni Size at the Brixton academy is a bit too expensive for me. Also, my application for the SESSA individual foil championship has been turned down because I submitted it too late. This has left me at a loose end for the weekend.
Then I heard about the secret Kenickie gig at the Alleycat in Reading. Well, I withdrew a healthy sum of money on Sunday morning and caught the 11:30 train to Kings Cross. Tubed across London and got to Paddington station with time enough to catch some lunch and the 1:00 train to Reading.
Having been thrown out of first class minutes before my arrival, I alighted from the train with only two objectives for the day.
1) Find the Alleycat and get a ticket
2) Visit as many pubs as possible
My brother had told me that the Alleycat was at the end of Gun street, so I made my way towards the town hall to find a street map. On the way I dropped into the Three Guineas, the Bugle, the Newt and Cucumber, the Monks Respite and the big corporate pub over the road. Thus fortified and armed with directions I attend the Brewers Arms, The Hobgoblin, the Nob and the Horn - where I caught up with the Grand Prix result as well as two pints of Coors extra gold. Thereupon, I crossed the road and eyeballed the Alleycat, noting with pleasure the low ticket price. Then I entered the Purple Turtle next door but one, and immediately I was in trouble.
For starters I nearly tripped over Marie as I walked through the door and whilst looking round thinking "was that..." I discover myself at the bar surrounded by Kenickie. They ignore me, this is a good thing. I am frightened, or at least pissed and surprised which amounts to much the same thing, but I pluck up courage, turn towards Marie and Emmy and say,
"Err, hello."
Marie pulls a "oh god not another groupie" face and tries to look pleased to see me.
"Hi," they say.
"Um, unsurprisingly," I stammer, "I’m here to see the gig tonight."
"You’re early then," observes Emmy. She is correct, it is only four o’clock. Dozens of amusing, witty, barbed or otherwise appropriate ripostes flit merrily around my head, laughing at my discomfiture. I can’t remember any of them and manage,
"Err, yeah."
The barmaid rescues me. I order my drink - I hide. And so ends my first ever face to face Kenickie encounter. I am left with the nagging feeling that I could have done a lot better if I hadn’t been paralytic.
I leave after the band, having made friends with a scary man called Paul. I return to the station to find out when the last train leaves and stop off at the Horn, the Hobgoblin, the Bugle and the Three Guineas, where - depressed by my inability to think clearly - I drink four hot, black cups of sobriety and piss quite a lot.
I return once more to the Purple Turtle, which is now thankfully a Kenickie Free zone, outside of which I meet two fans, Errol and Martin - one likes Marylin Mason, the other doesn’t - We drink more. Martin becomes a friend for life by giving me some tabs. I smoke them and complain that the jukebox only wants to play the crap songs off Urban Hymns.
At about half seven we nip outside for a spot of fresh air. Lauren and Emmy appear and my new friends chase after them, never to be seen again. I maintain my composure and call after them in a loud voice.
"I expect your life is complete now," they laugh and I add, "by the way Lauren, thanks for the card with ducks on it."
She turns, a little surprised I fancy.
"Was that you?" she asks. I look down modestly, stir the gravel with my toe and grin lopsidedly.
"‘Fraid so, one and the same."
She laughs, I laugh. She disappears up the road towards the town centre on heavenly wings. I buy my ticket.
At The Gig:
Maybe an hour, and many pints of overpriced Heineken later, I am in the Alleycat cellar bar. I have chatted to many fans, none of whom have heard of my page. This is a relief. I wander upstairs and watch the support band tune up. They start to play. I leave. As I descend once more into the nether pits of hell, I catch sight of a tall figure with flowing locks. A brightly glowing halo surrounds his head and the crowd parts before him. Happy dancing children follow in his wake and grass sprouts where he places his feet. I begin to wonder what I’ve been drinking. I approach him.
"If I am wrong," I say, "then this will sound very strange, but are you - by any chance - the eternal Kenickie uberlord, Bremstrahlung X Jones?"
He grins, nods, and we exchange the secret handshake.
"Yes," says he in thunderous tones, "who are you?"
I attempt to look mysterious.
"Some people know me as... Matt."
Thus united at last, there is a cataclysmic explosion that levels the entire block.
BSX swiftly introduces me to his friends, the support band thankfully vanish, the lights dim, Kenickie come on stage.
What were they like?
Well, they were really rather good actually.
I could go on at length about how great they looked, but that goes without saying with the ‘Nicks so sorry XK. BSX has already discussed the more metaphysical aspects of the gig, so let us instead discuss the music. They opened with an accapella version of Come Out 2nite which made us grin stupidly and snap our fingers. They followed up with a set of almost exclusively new songs including I Would Fix You, Run Me Over Magnatron (introduced as "A disco song about hangovers - because hangovers and disco’s go well together"), Lunch at Lassiters, Sixties Bitch and Physic Defence. They let us jump about to In Your Car and finished off with Stay in The Sun. I know all this, by the way, ‘cos it was written on Johnny X’s amp.
We, in the unofficial scary corner of the audience, hand jived stupidly then grinned at each other knowingly and laughed like children. I heckle, and am properly ignored. BSX explains the cheesecake joke, and suddenly everything becomes clearer - but no funnier. The gig ends, the ‘Nicks leave the stage. Sorely disappointed, we yell encore and thump the speaker in front of us. About 30 seconds later they return to the spotlight for one more tune. A final, full blast traditional shot of Come Out 2nite. It ends, as all good things must, and we don’t push our luck.
By this time I have become a BSX groupie on account of his exclusively procuring an interview. We retreat downstairs to discover the smallest Kenickie fan in the world. His name is Robrizzo and he comes from near my home town. Further fortified, I tuck Rob into my pocket and we return to the stage in a daring attempt to capture us a real live Kenickie person. As it happens, we snare two, Lauren and Emmy. The following interview was both surreal, funny and done by BSX, so rather than piss on his bonfire, find it here and note well my cameo role. I wasn’t that funny in real life.
The interview ends, we remain and chat for a while. BSX et al leave to catch a train and our stories separate, I get waylaid by a scary man who says it’s his birthday. I excuse myself and make good my escape.
The train to Paddington is delayed and I miss the last tube. However, despite the lingering odour of eau de crapulence about my person - and largely thanks to a heroic but nameless taxi driver who I should have tipped more - I get to Kings Cross in time to catch the last train home. I still have to walk three miles home after arriving in Hatfield and do so despite having somehow acquired a gamy leg at the club. I go to bed, turn over, fall asleep, wake up next day, I have essays to write and exams soon, life goes on...