ni.chol.as

I am not sure why, after so many years of going to gigs, I persist in turning up so damn early. Maybe it would be an excusable thing if I were attending with friends, it’s nice get a chance to get some beers in before the main event. In the case of Grinderman’s gig this week at the Forum in Kentish Town, I’m afraid I had no real excuse. I left work early, showered quickly and was inside the forum with two hours to kill before the main event. Boy, was I was made to regret it.

The regret came later, though. The first support act was a single guy who wandered through the thin crowd in front of the stage whooping and playing an acoustic guitar, Blues style. He had a supremely weathered and tanned face, a long white goatee beard, dirty cap, dirty jeans and dirty shirt. He gave the impression of an American deep-South mechanic, or a hobo, or a tramp. Turns out, he was actually both homeless and spent time hoboing it up on the railways having left home at 14. His name is Seasick Steve, so named because, well, he gets seasick. “There ain’t no mystery,” he says. His music is unmistakably Blues and he played a handful of battered-looking guitars with great style and talent. Stamping on a wooden box to provide his own percussion he howled out some fantastic tunes, at times writhing his upper body around in mad contortions and looking for all the world like his head was about to explode. The still-small crowd gathered make some of the loudest, most appreciating noises I’ve ever seen for a support. I got really into this charming chap; he has a great wry sense of humour and story-telling style that adds some real depth to his character and goes some way to explaining where the music comes from. One of his guitars, about which he tells a story, is held together by duct tape, has only three strings none of which are the correct strings for the position. Somehow he makes some incredible riffs come out of it and even slows the action right down to show the crowd. It doesn’t help, I still can’t see where the complex changing chords and plucked notes are coming from. Steve finished up after 6 or so songs and got such a warm reception, I can’t help feeling I’d like to see him again.

With Seasick Steve’s raw analogue talent and honest warmth setting the tone of the support acts, what followed can only be described as a brutal joke played by cold and evil bastards on an unsuspecting, softened-up, gullible crowd. The next band up were called Suicide; a name that, by the end of their set, you end up wishing to be a case of nominative determinism. A two-tier rack of synths is plonked on stage. One microphone stand some distance away. What follows is this: the keyboard player comes out wearing a pair of huge pretentious ski goggles and sets off a multilayered looping sample. He then plays a simple melody over the top of it with all the stage presence of a broomhandle. The behatted singer comes on stage looking for all the world like an extra from Nathan Barley. His vocals consist of heavily adulterated, echoey screamings over the top of whatever garbage the synth player is wanking out from the sick depths of the keyboard’s memory. The crowd is five times bigger than were around for Seasick Steve (who I’m feeling quite nostalgic for at this point) yet their applause is a fifth the volume.

I can’t help feeling a bit depressed about seeing these guys since I am quite a fan of noisy electronica with shouty lyrics. I’ve spent enough time around the gothy side of London’s music scene to know that this kind of band is not only common but there are whole armfuls of London groups operating in this space that are more deserving of this support slot. I’ve spent long holiday weekends at EBM events stood around being mopey in the LA2 (as was) and heard ten bands that have more stage presence and innovation than these guys. They’re played to saturation in venues like Slimelight and you don’t have to look hard to find someone talented, doing something new. Standing listening to Suicide, you can’t come to any other conclusion that they are just a particularly boring example of the genre and question the reason for them being chosen. Imagine my surprise, then, to hear that they’re MOJO “Innovation in Sound” award winners, have been around since 1971 and are considered seminal. Who’d have thought it?

From my notes on “Suicide” taken at the time.

“One track sounded like the distorted melody from Black Box’s number one hit “Ride on Time” overlaid by vocals from a man in the midst of a bad trip, whooping like a fuckwit. It sounds like he’s crying for his mum and simultaneously realising that he’s shit himself. The lead singer has pulled his jacket over his head now and is singing from within his little cocoon of bollocks.”

The finale arrives and the keyboard player is hammering dramatically on the keys and yet, strangely, having only the slightest discernable effect on the music. At this point, proceedings have descended into comedy. He’s stepped back now, playing the keyboard like he’s prodding at his dead mother’s corpse. They finally finish, soak up the “meh” of applause from those not trying to lick the wall sockets to end their suffering, and fuck off. Thank Christ.

There’s more to write, but I’ll break here since it’s becoming lengthy. Spoilers: Grinderman were really good, BeardRating(tm) was very high and Suicide make a comeback and earn the ire of my newfound friends in the men’s toilets. Stay tuned!