Wit Dickington.....or a few notes on my trip to the nation's capital

by Geetan

London.....

A vortex of traffic that sucks you in one end and spits you out the other. A city, tied up in concrete ribbons as a gift to the god of congestion and confusion; or so it had seemed to me as I drove through the streams of relentless traffic.

It was dark and wet, and cold and the lights dazzled me, but I had found my destination, BUSH HALL, in Shepherds Bush; an old dance hall that had been a venue since 1904. It sat on the corner of Uxbridge Road and Arminger Road, a concrete reminder of the days when ballroom dancing meant more than just wearing a pair of baggies.

I circled it, a little traffic waltz, trying to find a place to park. It took ages to find a suitable crevice I could wedge the car, Elvis, into. This bit of the journey from Manchester was the worst. I felt a little queasy after I had eaten the greasy carcass of some Kentucky Fried Chicken in a motorway service station. Chicken hadn't been my first choice. I had wanted the 'all day breakfast.' which was boldly displayed on the Menu.

It wasn't available.

The words 'all day' it seemed, were a random bunch of letters the guy who made the sign had left over and he thought he'd stick them on. Pity he didn't have enough letters left over to say, 'only joking' and then I wouldn't have bothered asking for it.

I was sorry to have eaten the chicken. It had tasted like the poor thing had spent a couple of hours doing aerobics before I ate it and nobody had bothered to wipe the sweat off; or removed the leotard judging by the chewy texture; but at least it was hot; or should I say re-heated. I'd also had the worst cup of coffee. It was so horrible I'm surprised the mug it came in didn't have a flush handle attached to the side. It tasted like...well, not good; not so much Maxwell House, but more a dilapidated old run down shack that had a couple of wino's sleeping in it than a house.

But anyway.

Mustn't grumble.

I was on a mission.

I was going to see some bands playing at BUSH HALL. hosted by UKBANDS.NET.

I was also expecting to see the launch of a magazine called 'NOIZE MARKET' with contributions by yours truly in it.

I managed to see one out of these two...

I turned up late. Not fashionably so; unless driving around in circles trying to find some place to park has suddenly become the thing to do on the catwalks in Paris. So, I missed most of the first band, THE DEADS. They were already playing a chugging guitary rockindoodahfuck; but I was too distracted by the décor to pay too much attention. The venue had chandeliers and looked like it would be more suited to the gentle soft shoe of ballroom dancing and bingo. There was a piano in the corner as you walked through the door. It was covered with a black shroud like a rather fat, squat nun with a toothy smile. The floor was covered with a red carpet. I don't know why that struck me as odd. This is, after all, the capital of the country and they can afford carpets and don't have to use straw like the rest of us up North.

With the red carpet and the general pink lighting and ambience, spilling onto the white walls, I felt like I was in the mouth of a whale that was just about to vomit a band.

The crowd was standing around, waiting on some musical bus which hadn't arrived for them yet. A pity. After I adjusted my brain from traffic to the tribal somnambulism of the average rock crowd at the start of a gig I realised the band was rather good. The crowd wasn't living up to the terrific effort they were making to entertain. The band got ten out of ten for trying, but the audience were disqualified for not giving it plenty. It was like walking into Madame Tussaud's on the day they picked for spring cleaning.

And you couldn't smoke. My God. What is rock and roll coming to when bad habits aren't positively encouraged. What next I wonder. Instead of head banging, perhaps a little Indian Head massage, or lets just hold hands and give a little Reiki? Still, I must say the vibe was very good; a nice bunch of people, and...yes, hang on, as soon as I began to settle down, I do believe I detected an undercurrent of excitement in the place; unless the Tube runs underneath.

As I sipped my pint and made notes, I was quite pleased to hear the frontman of the band say 'are you all having a good time!?' and the waxwork crowd roar 'Yurrrssss' and cheer. THE DEAD deserved the feedback.

They broke out into a bit of funkery with a wah wah pedal chuckachucking back to memories of seventies cop shows. I got into the spirit of things by chuckachucking my pint down my neck and went for a piss.

Now, it's not often you walk into a toilet and see a vampire; at least, somebody who looks like one from the back; a tall, imposing figure; all dressed in black; long leather coat snaking with a leathery slick down the back of the dude I saw. I didn't speak to him. For all I knew he could have been in the middle of a fresh bag of virgins and it would have been rude to interrupt, so I just drained the weasel and went back to the bar.

I started to light up, but saw the sign saying you couldn't smoke at the bar. Sigh. I got my drink and stepped into the crowd a few feet away where you could smoke. My smoke drifted back to the bar. Even it didn't want to be around me when I lit up; the traitorous bastard.

Back inside the venue hall, the next band was doing the deed. They were called BLACK LIGHT UK. Like everything I saw on this night they had all the ingredients to do well for themselves. The young chap who was fronting the band, was very sure of himself and did a good job in engaging the crowd. It did seem to me though, that he was dancing for most of the first song, slightly behind it. This may have just been my perception. Somewhere inside I was still travelling down the M1 regretting my chicken. I wondered at one point if he had an earpiece and was listening to ''Womans Hour on Radio Whatthefuck'. He seemed to be doing some pelvic floor exercises. His dance, most peculiar'y, consisted of thrusting his groin toward the audience as if somebody was trying to yank him off stage by the nuts, but fair play to him and the band. If all goes well, they'll have a record deal in the future, and he'll have a very healthy uterus by the time he's twenty. Apart from that little aberration, which I repeat, was more than likely just my perception, he and the rest of the band delivered the goods in a very professional way. Incidentally, from where I was standing he looked like the lead singer out of the Stone Roses when said singer had been in school; a sort of Ian Brown Lite; best of luck to them.

While I remember, I must mention one of the other bands who played during the course of the evening. FIRST SUBJECT were a three piece that rocked; nothing was wasted by them in a muscular set with some great playing. The drummer in particular was very impressive. He did a great solo, and all through the set he was twirling his sticks with a very slick, flash of the wrist. He was so good at it, at one point I thought he was going to start juggling fruit and introduce a knife throwing act. Even when he dropped a stick, and looked a little nonplussed, he never dropped a beat, which, as well as making him a cool drummer, was very entertaining to watch, he must also have a very well trained knob, because something was hitting the snare and it certainly wasn't the stick he had dropped.

After watching the band I went to get myself something else to drink, but first, I needed to make space by draining the weasel again so off I went to the loo.

And at the risk of repeating my earlier observation I must say...

It's not often you see Count Dracula having a piss when you go into the Gents.

But there he was, back turned to me and head down, easing his bladder.

Again, I didn't speak to him, but wondered how did Dracula ever manage to squeeze his spots when he was a teenager, if he couldn't look at himself in the mirror? Mind you, a couple of seconds in the sunlight, would probably be the equivalent of some pretty expensive cosmetic laser treatment to remove the top layer of skin so maybe it wasn't such a big problem after all.

I came out of the Gents and hooked up with Tarquin Sutherland. If you happen to be reading this Tarquin, don't worry. I did wash my hands. Who is Tarquin? Well, Tarquin owns the video production company: Big Productions, who were recording the bands on the evening. He is also the Managing Editor on 'Noize Market', for which, I had driven all the way from Manchester.

We hadn't actually met before. He had his back to me when I first approached, and was reading some notes so I patted him on the shoulder. He turned round and I said, 'Hiya, Tarquin! It's me. Geetan.'

He looked slightly baffled. Possibly thinking 'what a strange pair of names ( Geetan – Tarquin ). It crossed my mind to say, 'ah Tarquin! I'm an old friend of your brother, Sequin. I believe he's big in ballroom dancing these days', but I didn't, because one day he may give me some money and I didn't want to piss him off.

Tarquin acknowledged my legendary status amongst those who know about that sort of thing by saying 'who?'

'Eh..Geetan?'

He still looked puzzled.

'I wrote some stuff for the magazine. Noize Market? Chinese Elvis?'

'Ah!' he exclaimed, 'Jailhouse Cock!'

Not how I'd like to be remembered for posterity but it was a start. I was relieved to see that he did in fact recognise me now. As I say, we had never actually met before. Our only contact was via email. Chinese Elvis was a great guy I had interviewed for Noize Market, and 'Jail house Cock' was... well, you'll just have to read Noize Market when it appears if you want to find out.

We shook hands, and I said, ' I've come for the launch of the magazine.'

He looked somewhat nonplussed and said, 'we pulled it. Didn't you get my email?'

I hadn't, and said so. When I got home I discovered I had in fact been notified, but I had speed read it and missed that particular section of the email. To say I felt like an idiot would be... well, quite accurate. Tarquin was kind enough to take me upstairs to a room that overlooked the stage so he could explain the reason why the launch had been delayed; and possibly so I could throw myself off it when I realised it had cost me about seventy quid to find out. Okay, so the drop wouldn't kill me but I'm sure whoever I landed on would agree that I had come a long way just to find a parking space in London.

But it wasn't all bad.

I had, by my actions, in one fell swoop, proved all my teachers wrong. They always said, if only I'd pay attention, I could go a long way. Well, I hadn't paid attention and I'd gone a very long way indeed; two hundred miles or so.

Bugger.

Oh well. It looks like when the magazine is launched, it will be even bigger and better, so not to worry.

In the meantime...

After a chinwag with Tarquin, I went back to the bar, finished my drink, and had another smoke with the rest of the lepers in the smoking area. I mused on a novel experience Tarquin had introduced me to. By that I don't mean like the time when Steinbeck slipped on a kumquat and landed rather awkwardly on the first draft of 'For Whom The Bell Tolls'. What I mean to say is, Tarquin had introduced me to another chap by using my pseudonym; Geetan. It was most peculiar, to hear somebody else say the name. I'm used to being Geetan, but not used to being introduced as him. Most of my interaction with the public is through this site; well, apart from the time I was on the radio as a woman, talking about the plight of the homeless, but that's another story all together.

I was about to say, 'well, actually my real name is...' but then thought better of it. Listening to people trying to pronounce Geetan, with that look on their faces is quite interesting. You know the look. The one that says, I hope I've got this right and what a strange name. To be honest, I don't quite know how to pronounce it myself. I only need to know how to spell it, which I do.

But that is by the by and not what I was thinking when I went back to the loo. I was wondering why, after a few pints, my bladder turns into that of a squirrel? Is there a squirrel some place thinking 'how weird. I've just had fourteen pints of lager and don't want to urinate. What the hell has happened to my bladder?'

I was quite surprised, in the loo, to see Dracula wasn't in there. Good job I hadn't put a bet on him being present this time. I would have lost my stake; and I didn't have the heart for any more blows. I returned to the darkened hall and there he was; on stage; looking quite Goth like and very charismatic.

Well, I call him a Goth, but only because I can't keep calling him Dracula now that I have seen him from the front. There certainly was a darkness about him, but not in the bad sense of the word. I would say it was more of an air of mystery and the mystery was how natural he was at what he was doing.

His name, it turned out, was Gabriel.

Most frontmen throw shapes, but Gabriel became them. He rolled his eyes, and grimaced and gnashed in the manner of somebody who just may swallow his own head if he's not too careful, but also this dark figure had a certain sensitivity at times that was the perfect counterpoint to the roar of his voice when he opened his throat and let his words fly like bats out of a cave. A very powerful voice was lurking in there. Gabriel's face was at once cherubic and then seemed to be on the verge of being possessed by some unearthly spirit; a bit like Linda Barker off 'Changing Rooms.' Oh hang on; Maybe it was Linda Blair from The Exorcist. But that's just it, Gabriel had the ability to shift and change with the songs; at once tortured and then arrogant, or cruel, or just a little bit broken; but then a persona would step out from all of the people that seemed to inhabit Gabriel, and the Inner Poseur would step out from behind the lidded eyes and stand looking into the camera.

It was a beautiful thing to behold.

As a front man, he was the dog's bollocks.

So much so, I wouldn't have been surprised if a big furry snout and a wet tongue had have come down from the ceiling and given him a deft doggy lick.

The singer was called Gabriel, like the angel. At times he looked like he was on his way back to heaven, and then at other times he looked to be falling into the pit of his own angst.

So....

I contacted Gabriel and asked if I could interview him.

When his head stops rotating I'll let you know what the answer is.

The band is called OPUS BRIDGE