Last night I went to The Croft with my chum Andy (he of the harsh Venn opinions) for a drinkipoos and to catch some bands. I believe we saw Justin Greaves & Charlotte Nichols, and then The Transpersonals, but I’m frequently wrong about small things like accurate details, so who knows.
Anyway, The Transpersonals were okay (some fine drumming and that), but TBH I found it a bit dull, too much drippy hippiness. It wouldn’t had been so bad had the singer not opened his gob to make some facile remark about, y’know, how “there are no Israelis and there are no Palestinians” and why can’t we, like, just all get along on a transpersonal level, yadda yadda yadda. I don’t mind the psychedelic tunes, but please give the patchouli Tourette’s a rest, dude.
Maybe it was his coat that turned me against him. It was a nice army greatcoat type of affair, but it had a most distracting smear of white paint down the side. How can I concentrate on the music when I’m picturing the front man slapping emulsion on his hall wall? And why was he wearing his stage costume to do the decorating? Or did he buy it cheap off some Cossack handyman? At least the drummer looked like a drummer.
Sorry if this all seems incidental, I’m not saying it was bad or anything, I just got a bit bored is all. Plus there was a bunch of stag party types in, throwing shapes like cherry bombs. Oddly enough one of them looked like a shave-headed Barney Bee. If that was you, Barney, you breakdance like a drunken suicide bomber and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Given the improbability that it was Barney, I think Barney should instead feel ashamed that he looks like someone who breakdances like a drunken suicide bomber on a stag party. Guilt by association is, after all, still guilt.
Before The Transpersonals though was Justin Greaves and Charlotte Nichols (both of Crippled Black Phoenix, and each of sundry other projects & bands). I think. This chap Justin was playing guitar, sitting down (good lad), with lots of pedals and FX units and whatnot, whilst Charlotte sawed at a cello. She too played from a sitting position, so I think it’s safe to say we can strike up a victory for common sense. And what did they sing about? Thankfully nothing. Strictly instrumental music. 30 – Love. It was drones and loops and wibbliness and long notes and frankly very enjoyable. It reminded me of things like Spleen and Power Of The Tongue and Children At Play and Aerschot. Slam dunk, we have a winner. Plus Justin’s beard beat The Transpersonals’ drummer’s face fur by a whisker in the artistic unkemptness stakes.
Oh, and Fat Paul from Espionage was playing records too. I think. And now I think about it, he looks like gets-everywhere bit-part actor Perry Benson (remember the ping-pong twins in 15 Storeys High? Or the token white chap in The Real McCoy? Meggy in This Is England?) So there.
Topics of conversation: Getting older, young people’s haircuts, relationships, John Bunyan, Westerns, Greg’s wedding DVD, internet dating, transport union politics, feminism, Andy’s book, the Miner’s Arms. Oh what a barrel of larfs we are.
PS You can hear what The Transpersonals sound like yourself on this page of mp3s. Or you could look at the following video:
Or take a shufty at this, which appears to be (the sadly mostly standing up) Crippled Black Phoenix: