Tonight there is a special hole in the ozone over the ABC. Inside it looks like a Kelly Osbourne convention. I find myself fretting about the under-age drinking policy and wondering if the audience’s fathers know that they’ve had their Balaam & The Angel T-shirts nicked. I then begin to feel my age and wonder if I should really be here.
It`s probably an insult to say that the first act, Glasgow`s The Low Miffs, change my mind about this. But I don`t care. This being the ABC2 they hit the stage about ten minutes before the doors are opened. By the time I get into the building they are firing on all cylinders for a crowd of about three. Let it be testament to the band that they`re playing as if they are headlining Wembley.
Their frantic cabaret checks all the now boxes of angular art rock, but with a deep sense of drama that owes more to Jaques Brel (albeit maybe channeled through Neil Hannon) than the Gang of Four. It`s macabre, overblown, humorous and spectacular. And, by the time their sax player parps his last skronk and the frontman picks himself bloody off the floor. Half the crowd are dancing like there`s no tomorrow. The other half, contemplating washing off the eyeliner and brushing down their hair.
Neil’s Children have some Cure records. Sadly it`s all the rubbish ones. There are moments where they jam to the extent that they nearly reduce that influence to a poor facsimile of the bands that Smith et al were taking from. That just comes across as weird, but not in a good way. One song (Windowshopping?) gets a workut that leans toward near funky. It`s almost like an early Pigbag track. It`s the best thing they do tonight (well, the middle bit of it). But, does anyone really want that?
So, in my dotage, I come to The Horrors pretty much a novice. I`d heard one track (Sheena Is A Parasite) which had led me to expect great things from them. God knows why, you`d think I`d have learnt my lesson by now.
We get a full-on assault (mainly due to their relentless use of strobes only as lighting) of cartoon punk and fairground organs. But, not as good as that sounds. At best they remind you of the Damned but make you long for the 80`s B-line Matchbox Disaster.
The Rose Of Avalanche revival starts here. Do we need one? Good lord. No. Never trust a band that call themselves weirdos.
Time for bed granddad.