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NO SLEEP TILL FROME PART 6

2007 Tour Diary Part 6 posted 28th November 2007

Bristol

Before the show I check out the support band, republic of Loose. 5 Irishmen doing urgent punk - funk (F - Punk?), fronted by a singer with the voice of a Fallen angel and a face like a robber’s dog. It's pure filth; the deep soul soundtrack to midsummer night's dogging session. Niiiice.

Tonight's after show is a bit special. The Bristol chapter of the Hell's Angels have invited us to the clubhouse (Or CLAB - ASS). This is good news for a number of reasons, but chiefly:

1 There won’t be any trouble (trouble here only comes in one size: XXL)

2 The drugs will be first class (Who would Tax an Angel?)

3 We’ll be able to have a fag.

4 The music will be half way decent*

A 20 minute cab ride from the venue, we're in to the clubhouse. The decor is utilitarian; no IKEA lighting, no pot plants, no fruit machines, no 'promotions', no plasma screens showing the Champions fucking League. The back yard is three wooden tables in an iron cage in the middle of an industrial estate: HEAVEN.

Down the stairs to the basement, which looks like its actually been carved out of the living rock, Larry's already on the makeshift stage, tarting around, singing in a style associated with a genre commonly known as The Blues.

This Will Do.

It's always nice, on a special occasion, to complement the proceedings with a bag of sweeties. And of course the Angels are some of the most reputable confectioners around. I'm introduced to a disconcertingly well - spoken man with short grey hair, who kindly allows me to sample his sherbet fountain. It nearly blows my head off. That shit is proper Rowntree.

I stumble to the bar, eyes watering, up a dingy ramp flanked by dark hairy figures, silver teeth glinting in the moonlight. It's like a scary bit in a Harry Potter novel... But I don't think little Harry would last long in this Academy...

You might have opinions about Bikers. You might have opinions about Male Violence (is there another kind?) about Niceness and Nastiness, about Peace and War. But what you don't want is someone that's looking for trouble who don't know what it means. Our hosts know what trouble means; their middle name is Misery. That's why they're so polite...

Wading through the Funny-Fur Saigon that was Glastonbury this year, I ended up in the crew bar of the Acoustic Stage, one of the only places in the whole site where you could sit around under nice gas fire and have a couple of drinks without contracting trenchfoot. There my mate Steve Boxer, who looks like a nestling shark and writes about computer games, gave me a very nice Pill. As I was waiting for it to work and ordering a pint of Tequila and Redbull at the bar, I got into conversation with a biker called Red Steve.

It was my third day at Glastonbury, (I’d come down on the Thursday) and I’ll tell you I was pretty jaded. After 72 two hours of being assailed, cajoled and jollied along by over stimulated media students, mournful hippies and arts administrators on their first mouthful of mushrooms, Red Steve seemed like the only sane man in a grotesque, and very wet universe. I was adrift in a limpid plasma pool of fluid, fragile identities, and Red Steve was a Rock. He knew exactly what he was about. He was a Biker. He rode Bikes. He made Bikes. He sold Bikes. And occasionally tortured people. He was a breath of fresh air...

(continued next week)

*Bristol clubhouse playlist:

ACDC

Fun Lovin Criminals

Suzie Quatro

Alice Cooper

Deep Purple

Joan Jett

Queens of the Stone Age

Motorhead

The Damned