WHAT DO YOU DO, WHILE WAITING TO REVIEW HAREM PILOTS...

 It's just me and a pigeon.

Two of us.

Sitting on a bench.

Lincoln Square, in the middle of Manchester is cold and devoid of life.

Apart from me and my feathered friend.

He isn't in the mood to talk, so silently we sit looking at a statue of Abraham Lincoln on a big stone plinth. Lincoln looks cold too, which I guess is not really a problem for him, being bronze. It's an interesting statue. I have a lot of respect for the guy, but I think he could have been sculpted in a better pose. He holds his big cold brass hands in front of him. He looks as if he's waiting for a punch in the nuts, which is better than a bullet in the back of the head, but he's taking no chances.

The pigeon looks bored.

So am I.

I'm also pretty disgusted at my drink. I went into Starbucks for a Frappachino, but they were all out of 'frap', whatever that is. The girl said she could make me anything on the board above the till so I said, 'Espresso Americano.' Bad choice. I got what was essentially a cold cup of coffee with no milk, no sugar and ice cubes floating on the top. I might just take the straw out of it and drink out of a puddle.

The pigeon shifted slightly, leaning to the left. I'd seen old men do that. It usually meant they were trying to break wind; pigeon flatulence and cold coffee; great. Still, no point in letting it ruffle my feathers.

I remembered seeing another pigeon, a few years ago, as I sat in the square one summer. It was the mating season. For all I know it could be the same pigeon. I've no idea how long pigeons live for. Then again, I have no idea how long any of us live for, so I won't give myself a hard time over it.

Way back then, this particular pigeon was trying to pick up a lady pigeon. It was doing a little mating display, a lot of walking around in circles and bobbing its head up and down. It did that for a few minutes, and then obviously thought to itself, fuck this, and leapt onto the nearest pigeon; which rebuffed him with a lot of indignant wing flapping; a sort of 'what kind of a pigeon do you think I am?' response. This happened four times; and each time it was told, in pigeon, to fuck off. I felt really sorry for it. It must have been feeling really bad, but not as bad as a pigeon on the edge of the action. It was lying on its back, little feet up in the air; dead.

Medallion Pigeon, undeterred and desperate for a little action jumped on top again and started to... well, as I say, it started.

But it didn't finish. An old lady was passing, pushing her belongings in a supermarket trolley. She suddenly struck out and kicked our hero up the arse. He flew through the air with a flapping of wings. The old lady picked up the dead pigeon and tossed it into the bin. That's life for you isn't it. You think you're going to get laid, but just end up getting tossed.

I looked at the pigeon sitting beside me. How odd would that be, if it was the same pigeon.

'Do you come here often?' I asked.

It ignored me.

Then the rain started.

I pulled up my collar, and the pigeon settled its fat neck deeper into the pillow of its feathered bosom.

In the distance, I heard someone singing 'I Am The Resurrection.' It will be Easter in a few days, so why not. I wonder, when and if, Lincoln is resurrected, he'll see the statue and go up to it; and punch himself in the nuts.

Probably not.

I wonder for an idle moment if the singer actually is Jesus. If so, I wished He would shut up and make the rain stop instead.

He shut up.

The rain stopped.

A miracle.

I looked at the pigeon, and it looked back at me with a small glassy pigeon eye.

'I don't suppose you're Catholic?' I asked.

It cooed.

Atheist, I expect; waste of a little miracle, if you ask me.

I realised I was sitting between the Christian Bookshop and rather ironically, a pub called the Rising Sun. Perhaps the rain stopping was a sign. I decided it was. No; I didn't go into the Christian Bookshop. I went to the Rising Sun and was filled with Spirit; wine, to be precise. If it was good enough for the last supper, it'll do me, just so long as some hippy with long hair doesn't kiss me on the cheek and point me out to the bouncers.

The pigeon may have gone into the Christian Bookshop. I don't know. For all I know it flew into the window and got concussion for it's trouble.

It was that kind of day.

The average vocabulary for a pigeon is zero.

The average person uses around 24 – 30,000 words of the English language.

The work of Shakespeare, encompasses 24, 000 of which, he is claimed to have made up 17,000 of the total. As a writer, I'm not sure about him being called the greatest ever writer in the English language if he just made words up. That just sounds like a load of nonsensificationism. President Bush, makes up his own words, but only in a desperate attempt to disguise his grasp of English, is second only to his grasp of reality.

But I'm sure he knows what a cunt is.

Which brings me on to the Harem Pilots who I'm going to see later. They have a song called C**t. I'm also told they are an exciting band to see live but that remained to be seen. They guy who gave me that little nugget of information assured me they were. Mind you, he's actually in the band and so can't be quoted as an impartial source; think of him more as 'our man on the inside.'

The band is one of four who are playing in the Star and Garter. I've never actually been inside before but it always struck me as being a little on the seedy side. This is because it was located in the area, or at least one of them, where prostitutes walk the streets, having a pimp and a drug habit to support.

DID I JUST PICK UP A HOOKER?

As I walked toward the pub, I suddenly remembered picking up a woman in the car once, one dark night. It was somewhat further along the road from where you usually see women offering the kind of late night retail therapy that you never saw in 'Pretty Woman.'

I had stopped at the traffic lights and saw a woman stagger, just on the corner.
She stopped and held out a hand to balance herself against the wall. She saw the car and came over, grabbing the door handle. I reached over and rolled the window down. It was very late, and dark and I thought she might be in trouble.

'Are you okay?' I asked.

'I don't feel well,' she said, and reached in and opened the door, starting to get in.

'Whoa!,' I said, 'look I'm not a taxi. I'm just passing.'

She sat in the car and said, ' take me home.'

The lights changed but I stayed put.

'I'm not a taxi,' I repeated. 'I'll drop you off somewhere, but I'm just on my way home.'

A car came up behind and beeped. I was blocking the lights. Bugger. I set the car in motion. 'Look, where do you live?'

'I don't know,' she said, irritably, 'you're the fucking taxi driver.'

'Like I say, I'm not a taxi driver, and I have no idea where you live, so if you want a lift you'd best tell me.'

'You're not a taxi!' she exclaimed, 'so why did you pick me up!'

'I didn't. You just got in the car. But if you want a lift, I'll get you to your house.'

She burped, and said, ' I feel sick.'

'Shall I stop the car?'

'No. Just take me home. It's very kind of you, by the way.'

She then told me where she lived, which was in Gorton, and then proceeded to talk non-stop for fifteen minutes without drawing breath. I listened to her rambling on, and came to the conclusion that she was either on drugs or drunk. She didn't smell of booze though. And what was she doing wandering around so late in the night in such a lonely place. The only people you see around there at this hour of the night are pimps, punters and...

Oh shit.

I think I've just picked up a hooker.

I didn't have a problem with how she made a living. She could have a mattress strapped to her back and it wouldn't bother me; bit of a bugger getting her in such a small car to give her a lift but I could have strapped her to the roof or something. I was worried about her chucking up in the car and having to explain it to my better half when I got home.

I imagined the interrogation and my answers; no, I can't smell sick, must be that new air freshener... and the carrots in the glove compartment... let me see... oh yeah, that must be from the hooker.

Much relieved, I got her to her house. It was on a very dark, very rough looking council estate.

'There you go,' I said, looking at her, waiting for her to get out.

'How much do I owe you?' she asked.

'Nothing. Like I said. I'm on my way home anyway.'

So that was that. She got out. I went home.Never saw her again.

But

If she had gone in and her husband punched her in the face for coming in late...

Well, so long as he said sorry, he wouldn't receive a custodial sentence which is a bit tough on a woman if her husband decides to use her as a punch bag.

This came to mind as I was writing this because, I read a report in the paper that day, that if a man assaults his wife, providing he shows 'genuine signs of remorse" he will be let off. How nice. A man can break your nose, and all he has to do is say sorry; the law gives the man a get out of jail free card.

Give me strength. I feel strongly on this issue. I don't even like the way it's called domestic violence, as if it's some kind of task around the house; which I guess it is.

Bring dog for walk.

Paint the bathroom.

Tidy up the loft.

Kick wife in the tits.

The Sentencing Guidelines Council, which issues directions to judges in England and Wales, said "Rather than the imposition of a short custodial sentence, an appropriate disposal in such situations might be a suspended sentence order or a community order, in either case with a requirement to attend a domestic violence programme."

The only suspended sentence that is appropriate in the case of a man who batters the woman he live with is this:

Hang him from a tree by the...

And as for attending a 'Domestic Abuse Programme.' A third of men who complete these commit commit further violence within a year. Two thirds of those jailed or fined also resort to violence.

The report goes on to stress, "any assertion that the victim had 'provoked' an attack should be "treated with great care".

And what is the usual defence of a man who beats his wife?

'I'm sorry, but she was asking for it.'

Nearly half of all female murder victims are killed by their partners or ex-partners.



But anyway...

As I said earlier, The Harem Pilots are playing in the Star And Garter.

They have a song called Cunt.

The line that got my attention as I picked up a lyric sheet from their website was 'Only cunts beat their wives.'

I couldn't have agreed more.

HAREM PILOTS

I went into the Star and Garter, and asked where the bands were; upstairs; and is there a bar up there; yes; right then; up I go.

I meet Leigh 'Beardy' Hayes, co-vocalist and guitarist from the Harem Pilots. The song 'Cunt' is one of his. He looked like a gentle giant; with curly hair and meaty limbs. He had a beard too; and a head that looked nigh on indestructible. When Armageddon comes, only three things will survive; his skull, a supermarket trolley, and my mate, the pigeon. Oh, and some cockroaches, but the less said about the BNP the better.

Actually, Leigh wasn't that tall but he did seem to be larger than life. He wrote the song to make the point that people are more shocked at the word than the subject of the word; like a wife beater.

He introduced me to the other singer/songwriter, Phil M. Poole, otherwise known as 'Weirdy.' 'Beardy' then did the gentlemanly thing and got me a cold can of Fosters that I cracked open with thirsty relish.

All the Harem Pilots had nicknames; which I liked; a real bunch of interesting characters. Like outcasts from the seven dwarves, thrown out because they said, 'fuck you. We ain't singing 'Hi Ho, and going to work we go while Snow White sits on her arse all day. We're forming a band.' So, Bashful, Doc, Dopey, Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy and Sneezy, said goodbye to Weirdy, Beardy, Doc and Wildman who was quite pissed off because he'd been shagging Snow White. He promised not to tell the others. Besides, he only did it once. She put him off by making a sound like Tarzan eating a boiled egg at the crucial moment.

Phil M. (Weirdy) Poole, was an interesting character. He was sitting in a dark, shadowy place up against the wall. From behind a long fringe he looked out at me intermittently, like an actor looking out from backstage to see if the show had started yet, then drew back inside after he answered my questions. He was very low key, and slightly hunched over, as if he was curling up to protect something inside. There were bags under his eyes, carrying the accumulation of too many late nights.

A succession of bands came on; the Bootleg Poets, Bany Davis, The Lyrios; not a dud one amongst them. It was too loud to talk to Weirdy so I contented myself with making notes.

At one point, a young woman came up and asked me to watch her bag while she went to a cash machine; how trusting is that? I was quite content to be in the Star and Garter commune for music fans at that moment, with not a whiff of incense anywhere. She was called Esther, which isn't a name you hear everyday. I bought some perfume off the market for a girlfriend once, thinking it was Estee Lauder. It stank of yak sweat and turned out to be a cheap imitation called Ester Lauder. I had misread the label, proving I was both short sighted and a cheapskate in one fell swoop.

Esther was studying to become a biochemist, though not at that particular moment. She was drinking lager and tossing the odd comment my way. At one point she picked up my cigarette packet and pointed out the warning on the packet. It said 'SMOKING DAMAGES YOUR SPERM' or something like that. I said 'yeah. I use it as a form of contraception.' She put her fingers in her ears and went 'la la la la la.' Which I thought most peculiar, until it occurred to me that perhaps she thought it was a line. I'd been rebuffed when I wasn't even buffing. Bugger. I settled back into my seat and took some notes and then went up for another beer.

When I got back, their were some new faces at the table and Leigh introduced me; a real scholar and a gentleman as well as being responsible for a song called 'Cunt.'

One of the guys I was introduced to, Scott, had a good line in sarcasm describing one of the bands as 'maudlin shit' which wasn't sarcasm but made me laugh. Sarcasm is quite hard to do and still be funny. I've never managed the art myself but Scott was good. I was trying to be rather circumspect with what I asked him, not wanting to be shot down in flames.

'And what do you do in your spare time?' I asked.

'I'm a Level 51 Gnome Mage in Warcraft.'

Oh.

That shot the conversation out of the realms of sarcasm and into irony; a sarcastic gnome. I avoid role-playing games myself, because I don't have the time. I did get slapped once when I was in the garden section of B&Q and asked a woman for a little Goblin, but I think she may have misunderstood me.

The Harem Pilots took to the stage. Even though they were the third band on, there was a sense of anticipation that made this feel like the climax of the evening. A definite shift in tension. I guess you could call it a buzz; this was the life electric; guitars plugged into gently humming amps. The musicians were loose limbed and relaxed to the eye, but their silence had something of a coiled spring about it; and I find I'm excited too, for some reason. I've not even heard them yet. The clunk of the mike being adjusted; the snare being shifted; the sound of a hand closing over the neck of the guitar, touching the strings and muffling them; not yet; not yet; all the sounds a band makes as they prepare to give it up. They were little sounds, something tapping at the window, scraping at the door; wanting you to let them in.

And then 'Weirdy' put his hand to the mike and said, 'we are the Harem Pilots... this is Icarus!'

(Right click the Icarus link and choose open in new window to listen while you read the review)

I was standing by a speaker. The sound blasted my fillings across the floor to land in a glass, clinking like little ice cubes. The musical aggression and energy from the band burst through the dam and swept me along with it. The solid chunks of bass blasted through my chest and the guitar flayed me; the raucous vocal and the tight snap of the snare drum had me struggling to control my desire to jump up and down, like the guys in front of the stage. I took a picture of one of the guys, and it was just a blur; and that summed up the set; a blur of musical energy blasting through you; a positive blast of energetic goodness. It was a cure for lethargy; a punch in the nuts for musical apathy.

In the musical melee as I went from one side of the stage to the other and back again, trying to capture the experience on camera, I lost my notes, my cigarettes and my lighter. That's how much Harem Pilots drew me into their world as I watched. They tested out some new songs, but it was like being in a wind tunnel when a new wing was being tested for the Harem Pilots plane. They took it, shook it and saw what it was made of.

At one point 'Wildman' looked like he was going to test a new parachute. Clutching his bass like an axe, he climbed up on the top of the big stack of speakers, until his close cropped head was touching the roof, and there, hunched over like Quasimodo, he played through the song. It was great. The band played like they would escape from the narrow confines of the stage at any point. The leads and cables that snaked around them, shackles they had burst out from, but something kept them there, like an animal that has been in a cage so long, it doesn't know any other way. The cage is where it lives, and the stage is where 'Weirdy' comes alive. The quiet, self effacing young man oozed charisma. He's got rock hair, for fuck sake and already looks fit for rehab. What more could you want?

When Wildman came down from the speakers he took up the classic Bass Player stance, axe hung low, arm cocked like a gunslinger and his fingers pumped notes into the audience without mercy. Doc on the drums kicked each note a little deeper with a thudding tatoo on the bass pedal. He held the other three together at the back, sweating like a jockstrap, intense and locked into the beat.

Leigh, big, beardy, steady, rocklike and meaty limbed, thrashed his guitar looking out over the audience. I caught his eye and the gleam and the big grin on his face; he said I'd like it and I can't argue.

I liked it so much that I couldn't escape from the front of the stage. I usually get myself in a place where I can be objective about the music; but fuck it, in this case, the Harem Pilots deserved more than objectivity. Their live show wasn't something to write a PhD on. Judging from their passion and furiously frantic energetic live show, and the way they were giving it some to the bass guitars and drums, skin must have been left on the instruments. They made the night, one of blood, sweat and ringing ears.

Forget the comparisons with other bands of their genre; if black is the new white, then the Harem pilots are the new... Harem Pilots, actually, and you should go see them before they fly away, out of the pubs and the small venues.

THE END

I came out of the Star and Garter, with my ears ringing, and the taste of a quick whiskey tossed onto my tonsils; rumour has it that they were a bit dry and I like to nip that kind of thing in the bud. The cold night air slipped down the collar of my coat and I dug my hands into my pockets. All I needed was a taxi to get me home and I would consider that a night well spent.

I caught a movement in my peripheral vision. One of the hookers was standing in the shadow of a doorway. She flicked the butt of a cigarette into the roadway and then slowly walked down the road; a gaunt figure in a short skirt, pale legs; a ghost in the black economy, a daughter, a mother, a sister, a friend...

Who knows?

I turned away.

The wings of a pigeon, flapped above me, beating a little warmth out of the cold night air...