Geetan Goes To See The Lights


Hi there.

This is me in the Rampant Lion...

Oops

Sorry.

Wrong picture

What I should have said, of course, is...

'Look! It's a big pussycat snorting a lion of...'

Never mind



Above is a photo of the Rampant Lion. A sinister looking building which looks like it was formerly the residence of The Munsters is where I've come to see if I can extract an interview out of a band called The Lights. Rumour has it that they are in the process of changing their name to The Satellites. It seems, to quote their press office, they plan on going around the world a few times, in which case they could just as easily change their name to Bird Flu or Sputnik, in which case the world revolves around you; if you have a whitey that is. Conversely you could end up find yourselves in the fiery core of the earth with Beelzebub. Incidentally, for those miserable bastards who get great satisfaction from predicting the end of the world and are bitterly disappointed when it turns out they were just talking utter bollocks, I have some news. Theology students have convinced me that due to cut backs in Hades The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse refused to do the Apocalypse gig and James Blunt was the only replacement the Dark One could get at such short notice. So, the end of the world is nigh, and Blunt is doing the soundtrack.

But enough of that.

Come with me into the basement of the Rampant Lion and let us see what the night has to offer. Just let me do the usual pre-entry checks... stop looking at that picture of the lion playing leapfrog for a minute will you!

Okay...

Pre-entry checks; got my pen and notebook; camera; press pass; money; car keys; and the most important thing; is my fly up. I don't want to get done for pretty decent exposure, if I do say so myself. I've also got a Dictaphone, but time is pressing - so I'll phone him later.

Right; down the steps past the sign; easy does it; maintain your cool; remember you're undercover; through the door; that's it; casually make a beeline for the bar.

And we're in; slick; this undercover thing could grow on me.

'Hi, Geetan!'

I turn around from the bar and there's Julia, an old friend, looking suitably ravishing and blowing my cover right out of the water. I consider taking her down with a deft karate chop and then leap frogging over the bar, but she already thinks I'm unhinged so I just say, 'hiya!'

She's with two friends; or maybe they are clients of hers on a night out? By clients, I don't mean to suggest anything untoward. You see, she is a qualified counsellor and just the right person to talk to if you hate your mother. She introduces Clare and Leigh to me. Neither of them is foaming at the mouth or holding anything sharp so I risk a couple of handshakes. Hang on; I recognise the guy; it's Leigh Hayes from the irrepressible Harem Pilots.

Now my cover is blown, I may as well just assume my normal identity and drink like a fish underwater being pulled by a speed boat after eating a whole packet of dry crackers. Beer in hands, we take a seat beside where the gear is set up. I've not been here before. It's dark and warm and intimate; thrush must love it here. I bet they sell Caneston at the bar. In fact, I better be careful walking around in case anybody has inadvertently dropped any fresh yoghurt on the floor.

Oh look:

There's Nick, the drummer out of The Lights looking like a train wreck. I'm not surprised. I've heard stories about how he likes to party; it's said that when he was a child he used to snort his sherbet Dib Dabs... eh, allegedly.

And there's Chris, the front man pressing the flesh in the crowd.

Ryan, the guitarist, is at the bar ordering a pint of testosterone from the barmaid. She very nice, which makes for a boring anecdote. I was hoping she would be completely the opposite. I wanted to work in a line about how 'the barmaid looked like a Russian shotputter trying to pass an extremely large pineapple.' But, as I say. She was nothing of the sort, as Ryan seemed to have noticed.

Just as I'm about to approach Chris to see if I can get an interview with the band called Kevin Duffy, the support act's frontman introduced himself. He's called Kevin Duffy. He's the singer and guitarist, accompanied by Darren on bass, and Steve on guitar. They're doing an acoustic set. I sat back down to listen.

I mention the names of the guys in the band because of the confusion it caused at our table. When Kevin introduced the band, he didn't introduce himself. The only names he mentioned were 'Darren an Steve' who were sitting either side of him. We came to the conclusion that he must be 'An'. Funny name for a bloke but no matter, because they sounded great. The songs were melodic with a natural, but not predictable flow. I had the worst, most terrible, maddening urge to sing along. I kept having to disguise my sudden outbursts as yawns. In the end unable to resist, I put my head down and sang along, unobtrusively. That's when I noticed they had the cleanest shoes I've ever seen on a band. Steve looked like a young 'Donovan' of Hurdy Gurdy Man fame. Speaking of which, to call Donovan the English Dylan is laughable; it's like saying ' The Bill' is the English 'Hill Street Blues.'

Oh... it is?

Well, you get the point. Anyway, Kevin Duffy was well worth listening to; something that the crowd seemed to miss. They talked through the set which always really gets on my tits. Not that I've got any. Well, not on me, anyhow. I know where I can find some in a crisis but that's none of your business. What you should know is Kevin's worth checking out. You can find him by clicking here

When they finished playing, I spotted a familiar face; Phil, the accident prone bass player of The Patterns so I took a picture of his foot. Like you do. Julia started to look at me like I was a potential client so I took a picture of his head as well. Then I made sure not to sit next to him when the ceiling collapsed. That's how accident prone he is. 
    Julia asked me 'why did you just take a picture of that man's foot?'
    'Well, the last time I reviewed this band, Phil was on crutches after a nasty accident. I mentioned it in the article. His foot got fan mail, and I got called a wanker.'
    'Because of Phil's crutch?'
    'No. A  young lady showed me some pictures of her puppies. I made the mistake of mentioning it when I wrote the piece up.'
 (I think, somewhere at the back of her mind, Julia was booking me in for an appointment).
    'Her puppies?'
    'Yeah,' I said, 'lovely. Two of them, about this big and covered in fur.'
    For some reason my gaze inadvertently dropped to Julia's cleavage. Luckily, before I was slapped, I noticed Nick was about to pass by and I surreptitiously grabbed my camera. I wanted to capture that moment of intense concentration on his face that characterises the preparation of any outstanding musician before they get on stage and do their thing.

Unfortunately his pint got in the way.

Speaking of puppies and the young lady who was offended by the scurrilous way I had represented her perfectly innocent remark in the previous review of a Lights' gig, it suddenly occurred to me that she might well appear at any moment. I started to regret sitting at the front where I could be seen. How embarrassing that would be if she came up and slapped me in front of everybody. I'd look like such a twat. I might even spill my beer. Damn. At least if I was at the back and she did it, the slap resounding around the club like a wet seal dropped from a great height, I could just pretend it was a random clap, but up here, in front of everybody....

But...

Enough of that.

The Lights are tuning up.

First song:

Hot Days of Summer

What can I say?

It was the start of a muscular and melodic set that flexed the musical muscle of the band who are rumoured to be the next big thing. You can't hear the lyrics but you hear the voices and the passion. If you want lyrics, read them later on the bus while you're trying not to look at the psycho who keeps smiling at you and asking if you've got 70p so he can get to Sheffield.

I looked around to gauge the reaction of the audience in my capacity as a meter of these things. Though, before I could assess it, I noticed a blonde woman wearing a beret. It looked very nice; lovely, in fact, if a bit incongruous. Women can get away with that sort of thing, the continental look on a rainy evening in Manchester. It's a lot harder for men. Believe me, if I had walked in there waving a baguette around and smelling of onions, I would have looked like an complete arse. She reminded me of the kind of woman who, in films, throws off her beret across the bedroom, tosses her blonde locks so they fall around her shoulders and breathes, huskily, 'take me to heaven'. Being a gentleman, and the romantic lead, you oblige. However, life being as it is, she doesn't quite get to heaven. More than likely you get as far as Bolton then have to climb off and ask for directions.

And with that thought, the band reached the climax of the first song.




I've already used up all of my superlatives in my previous review of The Lights. When Jesus turned water into wine, the only superlative he got was, 'that's pretty cool, mate.' and then somebody asked him if he could turn the olives 'into a few packets of dry roasted and a banana.' I've given The Lights more than enough praise in the past and all they've done is turn beer into piss; after drinking it, naturally; but they've also written some absolutely cracking songs that you really should hear.

So....

I'm not going to lavish any more praise on them. I'm going to stop writing, and just enjoy the rest of the gig. I also need to save my strength for the interview  they have agreed to do later on.

And besides, the amount of ectoplasm coming out of the heads of the people standing at the bar was really starting to fuck my head up.



All going well, the interview should be on site next weekend.

And also, do me a favour.

Don't tell Julia about the ectoplasm. I don't know much about the state of person centred therapy these days, and the art of counselling and for all I know it might involve trepanning.

And God knows, with the hangover I'll have tomorrow,  I need trepanning like I need a hole in the head.

Geetan
March 10th 2006