Some people might think, judging me by my name, that I like Punk music exclusively. It might be expected that anybody foolish enough to change their name by Deed Poll to Punky Rennie is not going to like any other music. It’s not true though. I actually have quite a broad taste in music and if you read some of my previous blogs, including My Life in Music, Parts 1 and 2 and Punky Rennie on Desert Island Discs, you will see that my taste in music ranges from Opera, via Folk and Cheesy Pop to Punk and Metal. Punk is my first and main musical love but I have plenty of time for other kinds of music.
So on Saturday, Darcy and I decamped to 53 Degrees in Preston to see Dragonforce. When we arrived, there was a queue as long as the Nile, so we went into the Mad Ferret; Darcy for a JD, Ice and Water and me for a swift half. When the drinks were safely ensconced in our stomachs, the queue had shrunk to the length of Tolbooth Street in Falkirk (look it up) so we joined the end and were very quickly inside the venue.
I make a point of checking out the support bands at Gigs and have discovered some great bands that way, one of the first being The Straps. However, the first two bands, Glamour of the Kill and Sylosis, did not really do anything for me, not that we heard much of the first support but the second support sounded too derivative for me.
However, Sabaton, the third support, was a different matter. Right from the start it was brilliant. The band came on to a huge fanfare with huge grins on their faces and looking like they were going to have a good time, come what may. They all had magnificent beards, including the keyboard player, Daniel Mÿhr, who, from my vantage point, looked a bit like George Dawes. With a magnificent beard, of course.
Then Joakim Brodén, the lead singer ran on stage. It was getting better. He had a Mohawk (well, that’s what I call a short Mohican) and I love that hairdo; well, on a man, anyway. He was grinning too. Definitely a good sign. It was an indication of things to come as he spent the whole time during the set having what can only be described as a brilliant time. I can only name two of their songs: Cliffs of Gallipoli and Metal Machine; my hearing’s shot at at the best of times so I don’t always hear what the songs are called.
What I can say is they were great. I really enjoyed their set, the music was great and they were really appreciative of the reception they got. Early on during their set, Joakim made this very clear and he kept thanking us for the reaction the band was getting at regular intervals during the gig. He kept me amused too, twiddling with guitarist, Rickard Sundén’s nipples, ostensibly as some kind of effects pedal.
After a while, I realised the other guitarist, Oskar Montelius, looks like my son, Harry. Well, he looks like Harry would look if he had a long, plaited beard, which he doesn’t. At practically the same time and with a timing that suggests he can read my mind, Darcy turned to me and said “Doesn’t he look like Harry?” pointing at the bearded guitarist in question. Once that fact had been established, I came over all gooey and maternal. I know Harry is 23 and Oskar is probably even older (even though he looks very young to 40-something me) but they always stay your baby.
All too soon for me, which is amazing considering we had come to see Dragonforce, Sabaton’s set finished. I determined that I will buy a CD, so I need to find out if they’re as good in a studio as they are live. There are quite a few bands I love live but can’t be doing with on CD so I need to know these things.
So, after a wait, Dragonforce finally came on. I’d agreed to come to see them on the strength of two tracks, Through the Fire and Flames and My Spirit Will Go On. I love the duetting guitars of Herman Li and Sam Totman and was looking forward to seeing them live.
I wasn’t disappointed. The music was great and they were fabulous entertainers. Herman Li is small but perfectly formed but I was very disturbed by his habit of licking the guitar. It was freezing in there and I was worried his tongue would stick to the guitar and it would have to be freed with judicious use of warm beer. Z P Theart, the lead singer, bore an uncanny resemblance to Captain Jack Sparrow. I kept expecting him to shout “Ahoy there, me hearties!” Oh no, that’s Captain Pugwash, isn’t it? Vadim Pruzhanov, the keyboard player, is blessed with extraordinary energy and co-ordination. There is no way I would ever be able to play the keyboard and do high kicks at the same time. He was also able to come down from his exalted position (high up on the left hand side of the stage) to slum it with his keytar with the guitarists, bass player and front man. Frédéric Leclercq, the bassist, is just totally rock and roll. Unfortunately, I really can’t speak for his bass playing; my hearing is not brilliant and I hear higher registers better than lower ones. The same is true for the drumming and Dave Mackintosh was hidden away behind his drum kit.
We had to wait until the final song of the encore for Through the Fire and Flames. We were treated to the intro and then the band walked off stage. We all stood there with amused smiles on our faces, confident they would return. Which they did, except with everybody on the wrong instruments and Herman Li on high pitched vocals with a comical Chinese accent. My amused smile started to get a bit strained but then they all went back to their proper stations and we got the song in its proper form. It was a great finish to a really enjoyable gig.
Well, you may say that Punk and Metal fulfil a similar need for a Punky Rennie and that may be so, although I would tend to favour Thrash Metal over the more melodic variety provided by Dragonforce to satisfy my appetite for aggressive and obnoxious music. However, in case anybody thinks my taste in music is restricted to loud, fast music, I beg to differ. We’re going to see Kate Rusby next.
Yesterday, Darcy and I went to Manchester. We were on a mission. Darcy needed a new hat and I wanted to try on some 14 hole Docs. I drove to Horwich, parked at the railway station and Darcy bought return tickets to Manchester for us. Once in Manchester, we headed straight for Afflecks Palace. Before we found a hat, I found some Docs. I discovered to my horror that size 6 Docs are too big and size 5 Docs are too small. There are no Goldilocks Docs out there for me. I suppose I’ll have to buy some insoles and thick socks. Much to his disappointment, Darcy found nothing to suit him, either, although we did find some rather nice Mad Hatter Hats. I tried one on, as I need a new hat for Morris Dancing, but it wasn’t quite right, so I put it back again. At least I know my hat size now – 7¼.
We then wandered around the streets near Afflecks in search of the elusive hat and went in some interesting shops, including a vintage clothes shop that smelt horribly musty. Don’t they wash the clothes first? We also went in Rockers round the corner from Afflecks Palace, which had a great selection of clothes. Unfortunately, we had gone at the wrong time because everything was either an S or an XXL, neither of which fit Darcy. We will have to go back when they get the next orders in. Still, he has seen a few shirts that he really likes.
Darcy was very disappointed, however, that so far he had not spent a penny (no, NOT in that way) apart from on the train tickets and was getting quite despondent. I, on the other hand, had not had any breakfast and was feeling very hungry, so we went off to China Town in search of all-you-can-eat Buffets. There were Buffets aplenty and as we were trying to check them all out, we spotted the crowds lining the route of the Manchester Pride Procession in eager anticipation of the events to come. We also spotted two marvellous drag queens, both about 7 foot tall in their platforms posing with three teenagers, while their parents snapped away.
We found a Buffet and proceeded to stuff our faces, Darcy using a knife and fork and I, poseur that I am, using chopsticks. I am a purist and believe in eating food in the way it was intended: knife and fork for european food, Chinese chopsticks for Chinese food, Japanese chopsticks for Japanese food and chapatis for Indian food. Sorry if I’m a snob but that’s just the way I am. The food was very good and the meal was cheap and at last Darcy had been able to part with money. We left the Buffet fuller and happier. Although Darcy’s stomach was beginning to complain. He has a medical condition, you see.
We moseyed down the road to the Manchester Pride Procession, which, by now, was in full swing. In no time at all, I was really disappointed that neither Darcy nor I had brought our cameras. The parade was brilliant. I can’t remember everything that passed by but highlights for me included the Rainbow Flag waving police, SLUTS or Salford Ladies United Temperance Society, the Firemen and Paramedics (I’m sorry but there is no fantasy more potent for a Punky Rennie than a Gay Fireman), the Bears, the Unitarians, Amnesty International and the Religious Society of Friends.
The police officers were all genuine police (in case there are any doubters in the audience), of all ages and ranks. They were all wearing the more traditional uniform, that you don’t get to see too often nowadays and they were, to my practised eye, from different forces around the country. There was a time when you simply would not have seen police marching in a Pride Procession, certainly within my lifetime, and this was a heartening sight for me. The photo below, as indeed have all photos in this blog, has been lifted from the Internet. If any of the photographers object, please leave me a comment and I will remove them.
Police and Rainbow Flags
SLUTS were wonderful Goodies or Python-style ladies carrying banners with statements like “Old Dears Against Queers” and “Mince: Noun Not Verb”. I think their presence was made all the more enjoyable for me by the fact that a few minutes earlier I had seen a small number of clearly Christian protesters on the other side of the road, with placards basically stating that it is evil to be gay. In my opinion, SLUTS just showed them up for the bigots and fools they are.
SLUTS
I first encountered Bears at a Variety Show in Blackpool. This is now a somewhat dim memory for me and the members of the troupe, Bearlesque (now sadly defunct) all now look like Gary Bushell in my mind’s eye. Bears, in case you didn’t know, are supersized, hairy, gay men. They all look completely cuddly, indeed teddy bear like to me. The gentlemen on the float were dressed in drag, beards and all. I particularly liked Cruella De Vil. Wonderful.
I don’t have much to say about gay firemen (or heterosexual firemen for that matter) that can go in a family blog, so I will move swiftly on to the Unitarians and Quakers. I am not quite a birthright Quaker; my mother started going to meeting and taking me and my two sisters when I was three. I went to a Quaker school and after leaving it, went to Meeting once in a Blue Moon. I haven’t been for years although I am tempted from time to time. I don’t find that my Atheism is a bar to attending Meeting; Quakers are well known for their tolerance and inclusivity and I find Meeting the most wonderful opportunity to recharge my batteries (I MUST get up early on a Sunday one day and go) and I love Quakers. They’re great people.
I was not surprised to see people with Quaker banners marching in the procession. I’ve known for many years that the Society of Friends sees Gay love and partnership as being as valid as heterosexual relationships. Only a few days ago, I was delighted to see an article on the BBC News website which reported that the Society of Friends ”looks set to extend marriage services to same-sex couples at their yearly meeting later.” You can read the whole article here.
I hadn’t realised that the Unitarians are another extremely inclusive and tolerant Christian Church. A quick read of the home page of their website earlier when I was looking for the link above put me straight on that matter. I realised that Quakers do not have a monopoly on celebrating diversity and respecting other beliefs. I’m now no longer surprised to have seen them there; just glad I did.
Manchester Pride Paraders
While all this was going on, we were walking towards the end of the march and eventually it came to an end. We went back to the city centre and carried on looking for a hat for Darcy. Eventually we found it: a nice khaki cap that will sit just nicely on his new hairstyle. Our mission accomplished, we could now leave for home.
When we got back to Horwich, I realised that my timing had been about as bad as it could possibly be. The Bolton Wanderers/Liverpool FC football match had just come to an end and the roads were chocker already. I needed to fill the car to ensure we would get home and we must spent about half an hour in stationary and slow moving traffic to get back to the motorway. Fortunately, Liverpool had won the match, which put Darcy in a great mood and the journey home was great fun as he played DJ with his iPod and the FM Transmitter. I was treated to Gangsters by The Specials, Three Minute Hero by Selecter and probably my favourite Ska/Bluebeat track The Prince by Madness to name but three.
On my way home from work one day last week, I heard a bit of news that left me feeling very unimpressed with Jack Straw. It was his decision to keep Ronnie Biggs in jail and not parole him, even though the Parole Board had recommended it.
Ronnie Biggs is a bit of an anti-hero to people of a certain age in this country. He was one of the Great Train Robbers. He was locked up for the crime but then escaped and spent three decades on the run before deciding he wanted to come back home to this country after a series of strokes.
While he was on the run and in Brazil, he rather inadvisedly made some recordings with the remains of the Sex Pistols (post-John Lydon) and some of the words of one of the songs are still clear in my memory: Ronnie Biggs was doing time/Until he done a bunk/But now he says he’s seen the light/And sold his soul to Punk. I say inadvisedly not because of the sentiments, I actually rather liked the apparent lack of remorse shown at the time and it still appeals, but because the song was bloody appallingly bad and Ronnie just couldn’t sing. That was one of my first memories of the man. I had been too young to be aware of the furore surrounding the Great Train Robbery.
So he came back to England and was sent to jail to finish his sentence. Ten or so years later, he’s still in jail. He’s not the Ronnie we knew and loved. I heard his solicitor say how he is completely incapacitated and would be unable to reoffend. He cannot walk, he cannot talk. I didn’t hear it all because while the solicitor was speaking, I was screaming at Jack Straw (not that he could hear me) for being such a bastard.
I later saw Ronnie’s son, Michael, give a press conference on television about the decision. He filled out the gaps. His father cannot walk or talk or read or write. He can barely communicate. He cannot eat or drink. He is completely incapable of reoffending. Michael showed so much dignity I was really moved and impressed by his whole demeanour.
It makes me question our leaders: for a start, I thought our criminal justice system, and prison especially, had two main purposes: to rehabilitate offenders and to protect society from them. As far as I am aware and, if I am wrong, Mr Straw is absolutely welcome to put me right on this point, prison is not about Society having its revenge on offenders. If that were so, couldn’t we just forget about prison sentences, probation and community service orders? Just erect pillories and stocks in town and city centres and allow us to throw rocks at petty offenders and we could publicly castrate rapists and murder murderers. That’s revenge.
So, if prison isn’t about revenge and it is about rehabilitation and protecting the public, why does Ronnie Biggs have to stay in jail? He is no longer a danger to society and we are no longer able to tell if he has rehabilitated or not and I’m not too sure just how relevant that is now in his case, anyway. He’s a dying man.
I hope that Ronnie’s family and the people working for him are successful. I hope he is released and that he does not die in prison. I think a society which allows people who are no longer a danger to die in prison is something I want no part of. I want to be able to hold my head high and say that the society of which I am a part is a compassionate society.
At the age of 13, I lost my faith. Completely and irrevocably. I went from being a bit of a Christian, not really sure what it was all about with hazy ideas of Heaven and Hell, to somebody who did not believe in anything at all. At that time, the Nuclear Clock stood at a couple of minutes to midnight and I was totally and by totally I mean 100% convinced that I was going to die in a nuclear holocaust within the next few months. I was shit-scared and, suddenly, there was no room for religion. None at all.
The fear has receded (although finding the webpage for the link above gave me the creeps) but religion never found its way back into my life. For the past 33 years or so, I have looked to science for explanations for why I am here, how the world was formed and why it is populated by such diverse life forms. Science has done a very good job. It doesn’t claim to have all the answers but then that’s what science is all about: looking for them.
I have also had a few experiences that I might call spiritual, although I always class myself as Atheist: without a god. There is something about wild places that appeals to me. Hazy sunshine during Lakeland Walks or a mist filled landscape early in the morning that awake something very deep-rooted in me but it is much, much older than Christianity. I can so easily imagine Pan, just out of sight, at such times. This is the “Old Magic” mentioned in The Weirdstone of Brisingamen by Alan Garner and the intensely spiritual experiences described in Paul Hawken’s The Magic of Findhorn. I have these experiences and then return to the mundane world of work, living on an income a tiny fraction of Sir Fred Goodwin’s and all the extremely unspiritual experiences I have, such as punk gigs, shopping, holidays, friends and family.
This the sort of person that I am. Most of the time I see things in an intensely mundane way, favouring Quantum Physics and Darwin’s Theory of Evolution over a Creator God or even a number of creator gods. A tiny fraction of the time I think that there is the thinnest of veils between this world and another and that all it will take is the slightest movement or effort and I will be able to see or experience something quite different or, possibly, quite similar.
I had hoped that maybe the veil would drawn aside during the overnight investigation at The Winter Gardens in Blackpool that I went to a couple of weeks ago. I have watched Most Haunted once or twice and Whines and Spirits and Screaming Banshees a few times. I find these programmes highly amusing, although I remain sceptical about what is going on. I don’t necessarily doubt the sincerity of the people on the shows but it all seems a bit daft to me. However, actually being there could be a completely different matter and it would have been nice, even to a non-believer, to have experienced something there.
It started at 11pm, when we were let in through a side door and we had to sign a visitors’ book (just in case any of us disappeared during the night). We then went through into one of the bars and waited to be taken upstairs to begin the investigation.
We started in the Renaissance Room, where our hosts from Supernatural Events explained what the night held in store for us, divided us into three groups and handed out the equipment. The equipment was standard equipment for such events: crystal pendulums, EMF (electro-magnetic force) meters, digital thermometers, divining rods, motion sensors, glasses and 2 Ouija Boards. The glasses and Ouija Boards were kept back for later and we were advised not to use the Ouija Boards without an experienced person to hand.
I got handed a crystal and Darcy was handed a bewildering array of equipment, including an EMF meter, divining rods and motion sensors. He could have done with a couple of spare arms at that point. Two of the groups went off to other areas and our group remained in the Renaissance Hall. One of our number had a crystal, which within seconds was spinning wildly as she asked an invisible somebody loads of questions, all with yes or no answers. Mine refused to move. If there were any spirits there, they were avoiding me like the plague, thus confirming my suspicions that most people wouldn’t be seen dead talking to me.
Darcy had brought his camera and had been busy snapping in the Spanish Hall, Baronial Hall and the Renaissance Room. He had already captured a fantastic display of orbs, which are either ghostly apparitions or dust.
He put down all of the equipment that had been handed to him and had a go with the divining rods with what he felt was indifferent success. With my crystal still refusing to budge, I decided to have a go with the rods and he wandered off with the EMF meter and his trusty camera to do some more investigating and to snap more orbs. The divining rods were prepared to move for me but in an extremely anarchic way, which had me thinking I must be holding them wrong. Our host had demonstrated how to use them but I had no faith in my ability to do anything that would show there was anybody there.
It was at this point that the organiser, Steve, showed up and I told him of my complete lack of success. He reassured me with regard to the crystal and told me how to energise it, with the help of Darcy, who already has had experience of such things, as was evident to Steve. Suddenly, the bloody thing started to move, so I asked it questions so I could establish what was a yes and what was a no. Questions like “Is my name Punky Rennie?” (“Yes”) and “Is my mother still alive?” (“No”). After that, I asked it more difficult questions, “Is Darcy a woman?” “Yes,” it answered to my hilarity. Darcy was not amused. Then “Is Bobbie drunk?” “Yes” again (actually, she wasn’t). “Should Darcy have an Onion Bhaji?” The answer was a definite no and was correct, as later he had stomach pains. Silly Darcy!
I have a theory about crystals now, after this experience. I think if I am able to completely empty my mind, if and when I next use one, I can use it a bit like the alethiometer in the Dark Materials Trilogy. I think it can be used to find out what I am thinking or feeling at the deepest level and I might get some answers to questions that bother me from time to time. I do want to try it again.
After a while, all three groups were brought back together in the Renaissance Room. Some had clearly had experiences and some had been crying. Apart from my question and answer session with the crystal, I had had nothing. There was talk of two children, one of whom was not allowed to run about and play and another who was and the emotions associated with them. We were now encouraged to wander off into various side rooms, staircases and corridors. We were pointed towards certain areas but nothing was explained to us, to hopefully keep the experiences as genuine as possible.
By now, it had become evident that one of our number was a complete sceptic and non-believer and had possibly not wanted to come at all. She was not prepared to accept that anything from any other world or place could be present. Darcy and I were sent to a corridor where we experienced nothing at all; he didn’t even manage to photograph any orbs. While we were sitting there, feeling absolutely nothing, three people came in, including the sceptic. I told Darcy that she was going to frighten all the ghosts away and we made our excuses and left.
After wandering around a bit more and eating a few more Onion Bhajis, we returned to the corridor and sat down. The sceptic returned too after about five minutes. To our delight, it turned out she had experienced something. She had been stood on the stairs and, in her own words, it had felt like Hillsborough. She had nearly fallen down the stairs and nearly did so again in front of us. That, to me, is more proof that the veil to which I referred earlier exists than my complete lack of sensations etc proves that it doesn’t.
We spent the rest of the night wandering about, seeing the bits of the Winter Gardens that you never normally see and which are absolutely beautiful and took my breath away and finally doing some glass work (like Ouija but with Yes/No answers only) with a medium, when we spoke to a gay ghost (yes, really!)
At 4am, we all departed and, yes, we ALL departed; nobody had been lost or spirited away. I was knackered but delighted to find my car had not been clamped, issued with a parking ticket (a constant worry to me throughout the night) or trashed by drunken Blackpoolians (still very much in evidence). It had certainly been an interesting night and Darcy had a wonderful selection of photographs of the least camera shy of paranormal phenomena, orbs.
There may be scientific explanations for everything that happened; the orbs may be dust, the glass may have been pushed or pulled and people’s emotions are probably heightened at such times, thus explaining the tears of some of our party. I’m sure everything that happened and was experienced can be explained away as dust or mass hysteria, coincidence or our imagination (or lack thereof in my case) but I think a paranormal, spiritual or ghostly explanation is so much more interesting and entertaining.
So I remain a paradox: an Atheist who does NOT believe in a God or gods but who looks for another world, close to but apart from this world. I am glad that our sceptic co-investigator had her experience and I hope she didn’t decide to explain it away in the cold light of day. I hope to try my luck with a crystal again and Darcy already has his instructions in this regard, with my birthday getting closer. Finally, and I decided to save this until last. I thought it would nice to share the mother of orbs; well, the mother of orbs on Darcy’s camera, anyway. There it is, hovering just above the floor in the middle of the Renaissance Room.
Miss Behave’s Variety Nighty, Blackpool Grand Theatre, Febuary 14th 2009
I haven’t written a blog about a gig in a long while or so it seems. There are numerous reasons for this. One is I haven’t been to a gig for some time (Opeth in November 2008). Another is I never remember the set list. Probably the most important is I never remember the names of the songs and it’s frankly embarrassing to write a review of a gig when I can’t actually name any of the songs.
However, and this is a big however, Miss Behave’s Variety Nighty is a different matter. I have a program next to me to which I can refer when I’m struggling to remember the name of any of the acts and Darcy is sat on the sofa with me and I can ask him if the program is no help.
I’ll start at the very beginning. Darcy asked me a few months ago if I fancied going to see Miss Behave’s Variety Nighty. I answered with a resounding “yes”, as I had seen Admission All Classes last year hosted by the magnificent female sword swallower and thoroughly enjoyed myself.
Well Darcy booked the tickets and got me discounted car parking too and off we set last night for Blackpool, all bright eyed and excited. We had a quick drink in the bar and then went and found our seats and sat down, ready for the show. First of all, though, various ladies, gents (well one gent and he was wearing a short skirt, stockings and high heels) and drag queens (I hope I got that bit right – I sometimes have difficulty distinguishing between female impersonators and drag queens) were offering programs, chocolates and roses to the punters. We got ourselves a program and took a good look around at everybody else there.
We had Blackpool royalty there for the evening in the person of Miss Stella Artois and her escort and very regal she was too. She has the Queen Elizabeth wave down to a fine art and I thought she looked great. There were plenty of other very interesting people in the audience and Darcy noticed some people in forties and fifties dress in the stalls behind us.
Before long, the lights went down and Miss Behave appeared on stage. She did the introduction and drew our attention to the busts of Shakespeare and Handel above the boxes. Shakespeare is looking towards the audience and Handel towards the stage. That is because at premieres of his music, Handel would keep an eye on the orchestra to make sure everything was going well and during his plays, Shakespeare would keep an eye on the audience for the same reason. So you see, entertaining and educational.
The acts included The Amazing Marawa, who hulaed, Alex Dandridge, who made us laugh while he did tricks with a spinning football and juggled, Lady Carol on the ukulele, with a magnificent voice and great comedic touches, Jon Hicks, who has a similar painting style to that of Rolf Harris, Bret Pfister, who combined gymnastics and acrobatics on a huge ring swinging from the ceiling and Ida Barr, a music hall/hiphop fusion artist.
The highlights for me were Miss Behave, Barry and Yvonne (Couple Number 69), Earl Okin and Ursula Martinez.
Miss Behave was the compère but entertained us with a few tricks of her own, including a trick with a rose, which she pushed through the piercing in her tongue and then used it to pull her tongue out of her mouth and twist it round: disturbing and extremely amusing at the same time. She also swallowed a sword, which I managed to watch this year (I am of a nervous disposition and passed on it last year). Just as she was about to swallow (oo-er), a man in the audience shouted “Go on” and the poor woman had to compose herself again. Later in the show, she swallowed a table leg – which was hilarious and amazing as the table had a tray with a bottle of wine and glass on it, which didn’t topple over.
Barry and Yvonne are ballroom dancers. Their set started off with a misunderstanding and some innuendo. Barry came onto the stage from Backstage but Yvonne came through the audience. There was a massive dispute about this with Yvonne pointing out that Barry likes to come in the rear. Then as Yvonne clambered very clumsily onto the stage, with the help of a member of the audience, she hurt her thigh, which she then got the poor sod to rub better. After some introductions and some superb contortions from Yvonne, they danced a Paso Doble: in much the same way that Les Dawson used to play The Entertainer. You have to be really good at something to do it so awfully and make it funny. I was almost in tears they were so funny.
Earl Okin was also hilarious. He was billed as a musical genius and sex symbol. Obviously, you will have to make up your own minds but here is a clip to help you.
He sang two songs, “My Room”, a musical seduction, and “Bessie, Bessie, Bessie”, a wonderfully non-PC song about a highly unattractive woman. His impressions of musical instruments, especially the trumpet, were both hilarious and impressive.
The final act was Ursula Martinez. I am considering how I am going to describe her act tomorrow at work when people ask me if I had a nice weekend because I am definitely going to mention it. She did a trick with a hanky. She pushed it into her hand and it disappeared. She then found it in her jacket pocket and took off her jacket, revealing only a bra underneath. Fair enough, I thought, close up magic, no sleeves to hide anything in but not really the sort of magician you’d have at children’s parties. The hanky disappeared again and then skirt came off, then the bra and finally the panties. It was hilarious and a really good act but I don’t know whether to describe her as a stripper who does magic or a magician who strips. It’s a bit of a dilemma.
After her, the fat lady sang and the show was over. Darcy and I returned to the car and as we were walking upstairs in the car park, he tripped and knocked me over as well, a là domino. We hobbled back to the car, Darcy complaining loudly that he was too old and next he’ll need help with dressing himself and we came home.
It was a fantastic night and we’re still both smiling at the thought of it.
I was lucky enough to get the afternoon off work today; we’re having a bit of a quiet spell and I have leave to use so they paroled me for an afternoon. I was driving home with no CD to listen to and no desire to listen to the radio so I was alone with my thoughts and, as usual, they ran riot. At least for a while they did and I got to thinking of a picture I saw of my ex-husband recently where he is wearing a flat cap. That is where they stopped running wild and settled to an orderly course.
My first thought when I saw the picture was how old it makes him look. He’s a couple of years older than me but the headgear makes him look about 15 to 20 years older. Now, he’s never been a dedicated follower of fashion and has had a quite utilitarian approach to clothing and I’m sure he would be very able to justify the purchase of such apparel were he to be challenged but it made me think about the Generation Gap.
When we were teenagers, we were different from our parents. They would never wear the same clothes as us and we would never wear the same clothes as them. We were young and they were old. Their tastes were different too. They referred to the music we liked as “that racket” and we thought their music was boring.
When our parents were young, the word “teenager” hadn’t been coined. What follows is a very simplistic view but it will do. Men of our fathers’ generation wore short pants until they were fourteen and then they left school, got a job and dressed just like their fathers. The women wore ribbons in their hair until they were maybe a little older, then left school, got jobs and dressed just like their mothers.
A family picture from the 1940s
In the fifties, when the word “teenager” was coined, they started dressing differently from their parents; more flamboyantly and in brighter colours. They did their hair differently and they started socialising with people of their generation. This carried on through the sixties and seventies with the gap apparently widening although it had already widened to a huge gulf in the fifties.
In my generation, we had the most amazing teenage rebellion: Punk. I know I’m biassed; I was one, after all but the punk movement took rebellion to new heights – spiked hair, ripped clothes and safety pins and piercings where they hadn’t been in western culture for many, many years.
Punks from the 70s
The boundaries were clear in a way that they had simply not been when my parents were that age.
Well, as the title of one my favourite books at that time says: That was then and this is now. I am 23, 25 and 27 years older than my three children. I have been known to borrow my girls’ clothes and they do accept hand-me-downs from me. My youngest straightens my hair for me and compliments me (very occasionally) on what I’m wearing. I know that I can buy them clothes and jewellery and they will wear them. Not out of politeness but because they like them. My poor Mum would never have got away with that.
As for music, there is a decent overlap. My older daughter loves the music her Dad and I listened to in the Eighties and there are some punk bands she will happily come and see with me. Conversely, I have been to see her favourite band with her and gave them rave reviews after the gig. I wasn’t just being nice. The reviews were sincere.
I work with young men and women of my children’s age, as well, and I do not notice any kind of generation gap between me and them. I treat them like my peers and they treat me the same. Well at least that’s the impression I get.
All this led to the conclusion that we are now in a parallel situation to that before the fifties and the arrival of youth culture. The boundaries have blurred again. The difference is my kids don’t dress like me; I think it’s the other way round. They did not reach the age of 14 and then suddenly grow up but I reached the age of 40 and definitely grew down. Parents with younger kids dress them in similar clothes to the ones they wear and you see plenty of people of my age wearing the same clothes teenagers and people in their early twenties wear. It seems like it’s the same as before, only different.
On Saturday 14th December our Morris Team, Stone the Crows, danced at Preston Guild Hall as part of a Festival of Christmas. Darcy and I were one of the party and to say Darcy was excited at the prospect of performing at such a large venue would be an understatement of gigantic proportions. I am convinced that had he had a chance to crow about it properly, he would have done… Again and again and again.
I was also excited but my excitement was tempered with a degree of nervousness, as I would not be able to approach the dancing with my usual relaxed attitude towards getting it right. This is the sort of venue where we have to be tight and dance well. We spent the practice on the preceding Thursday refining the four dances we were to perform and I was delighted to find out on Saturday that I was to dance three of them.
Our fellow performers in the Festival of Christmas included the Preston Orpheus Choir, The BT Band (Stockport), a brass band, young ballerinas and school children from two primary schools, singing carols and performing a nativity play. Darcy and I were not sure the organisers were fully apprised of exactly what sort of dancers the team comprised. Actually, they knew exactly what we were because Stone the Crows appeared at last year’s festival.
We had two slots and two dances in each. First up, it was Much Wenlock, which can only be a fertility dance, as, in the chorus, one side of two rows of dancers has to present sticks in the “vulgar” position and the other bashes them. I have a very soft spot for Much Wenlock because I “met” Darcy while I was dancing it last year. He danced it very well indeed back then, even though he was a civilian, and I really enjoy dancing it with him now. It all went off without a hitch as well.
Much Wenlock at the Allison Arms
After Much Wenlock, we danced White Ladies, a double White Ladies to be precise, with twice the normal number of dancers. Again, it went off well, although there was some slight confusion at the beginning of the dance, when some of us did not know where we were supposed to be lining up. Okay, at the beginning of the dance, when I did not know where I was supposed to be lining up. Then it was off backstage again, as we were not performing again until after the interval.
We removed our bells (a vital part of Morris Dancers’ attire) and some of us went off to watch the next act, while the rest repaired to the bar. Darcy and I and four others found our way into the top tier of the seats and sat down to hear the BT Band. When they finished the piece they were playing, they accompanied the Orpheus Choir singing a German carol, whose name escapes me now. It was in 3/4 time and, part way through, two of our number got out of their seats and danced a brief waltz to it at the top of the hall. It was very sweet indeed. After they sat down, two more got up to waltz to the music. Darcy and I declined. I would probably have tripped over Darcy’s feet or my own, as I have never waltzed in my life.
After that, it was the interval proper and we made our way to the bar to drink fizzy lager or whatever took our respective fancies. After this small break, we returned to our backstage room and prepared to go out for our two last dances. We danced Ragged Crow, which, I suppose, is our signature dance. We had four sets of four, facing the four different points of “the compass”. I felt it went really well and will have looked great, especially the end, where we got the chance to run at the people in the front row of the audience.
I had a rest during the last dance, as only eight dancers were needed. The final dance was Crow’s Nest and the people who didn’t dance it, joined in with the musicians on percussion. I really enjoy watching this dance but I had to concentrate on making sure I kept time with the musicians properly and that takes concentration (for me, anyway). The dance was flawless and I sincerely hope the percussion was as well. The audience really seemed to enjoy it; the dancing, not my maracas playing and we left to rapturous applause.
After that, some of our number removed their face paint and Darcy and I accompanied one of our friends outside so she could have a fag. Darcy is a non-smoker and I’m an ex-smoker (and the worst sort – a chain non-smoker and tut tutter) but it was nice to go outside and cool down a bit. After that, we went to the pub for some proper beer but it was noisy in there so we left after one drink.
I enjoyed it immensely, as did Darcy, and now he can announce to all and sundry “I’ve had a gig at the Guild Hall”. Bless him!
On Friday, or perhaps Thursday, somebody made me very angry indeed. Almost angry enough to get out of my car (I was driving at the time), go up to the car in front, tap on the driver’s window and hurl a torrent of abuse at him as he lowered it. As is usual with me, though, discretion turned out to be the better part of valour and I stayed put, fuming in private. Instead, I made a mental note of his registration number and the make and model of his vehicle, fully intending to name and shame him on a brand new blog.
Time passes, of course, and very angry indeed turns to mild irritation and mild irritation to the complete inability to be surprised by the actions of my fellow humans. This driver will not get off scott free because I am going to blog about him now. However, I will preserve his anonymity because that’s what I do in this blog, so he can consider himself a very lucky man indeed.
So, what did he do to make me so angry at first and so supercilious at the end? He cut me up on a roundabout. When you come off the M55 at Broughton, there are two lanes, one to turn left and one to turn right. I was in the right turning lane because I was turning right and he was in the left turning lane because he was turning right. Yes, you read right. He was turning right from a left turning lane – a mandatory left turning lane too – so that’s 3 points on his licence straightaway, well, at least I think it is.
I mean how dare he force me, in my little red car, into the right hand lane, when I need to be in the left hand lane, going round the roundabout? Is it because he was driving an enormous 4X4? An enormous 4X4 that wastes fossil fuels that are fast running out? Wastes diesel (presumably), wears out the road and looks so damn ostentatious! It makes me mad!
So, Mr I’m a Big Clever Man because I Drive an Expensive 4X4 with a Personalised Number Plate (because I’m so sad that I have to let everybody know my initials) and Force Small Hatchbacks into the Wrong Lane Because My Car is so Big AND I don’t Give a Toss That I’m Destroying the Environment, it’s not big, it’s not clever and you should bear in mind the words of wisdom of my big sister, who is a very wise woman: it’s called the big car, small dick syndrome.
What seems like an age ago, I wrote a blog on another website (MySpace) about which 8 songs I would choose to be shipwrecked with on a desert island. I wrote it as a script between me and Kirsty Young, hopefully adding to its authenticity. You see, I’ve never been on Desert Island Discs but my Mum used to listen to it every Sunday and ever since I’ve had any kind of taste in music, be it good, indifferent or just plain appalling, I’ve always wanted to go on the show. I now want to go on Who Do You Think You Are? But that’s a different matter and would involve a degree of research into my ancestry I am not willing to do just at present.
Now I apologise to all the Guns ‘n Roses fans, who keep Google searching for Slash and keep finding this site. There are not going to be any G ‘n R songs on this blog. My boyfriend may resemble a mad Morris-Dancing Slash, when he’s in full Stone the Crows regalia but I don’t really like Guns ‘n Roses, although I make an honourable exception for Slash’s guitar solo in November Rain. I also apologise to any die-hard Desert Island Discs fans, who are expecting a full script with Kirsty asking the questions and me answering them. That is not going to happen either. Last time it took an inordinate amount of time and energy to do it and I really can’t be bothered nowadays.
Finally, I also apologise to any Punk fans, who may occasionally read this blog, because this is not going to be a punk fest. A couple of punk songs may make it to the final eight but there’s a lot of competition out there and I do feel that my appearance, albeit imaginary, on the show will have to have a theme, probably my life story, so most of the punk songs I love will be squeezed out by others.
So that leaves me with a choice of eight records and a very abbreviated account of my 45 and a half years on this planet. Oh and a book and a luxury. I nearly forgot those in the excitement of deciding to write this blog. So you can be Kirsty and I’ll be Rennie. You’ll have to try to make the questions fit my answers because I’m not writing them out.
I was born in a rather affluent suburb of London in 1963.
The Embassy Cinema which was replaced by Safeway and then Morrisons. I saw Disney's Robin Hood there.
I’m the youngest of three girls but only just. My nearest sister, Panda, is 15 months older than me and I was determined from a very young age not to be left behind. This has actually pretty well affected my whole life because if she liked something, I liked it. She liked horses, so I liked them. She liked History and English at school, so guess what. Yep, I have a degree in Medieval English and History. She liked the Beatles so I liked the Beatles.
Which, of course, brings me very clumsily to my first choice. Made on the spur of the moment. Helter Skelter from the album commonly known as the Double White.
When I was young and by that I mean a little kid, I loved the Beatles’ early stuff: I Saw Her Standing There, Please Please Me, Love Me Do. That sort of stuff. I got older and more mature and Here There and Everywhere was my favourite. Well, now I’m even more mature and I am of the opinion that there is a Beatles song for everybody out there. I’m sure there’s even one our Morris Team could adapt for Morris Dancing. Well, Helter Skelter is the new, mature, Born-Again-Punk Punky Rennie’s Beatles song. It moves and I like songs that move. Paul’s voice rasps and doesn’t grate at all and his final “I’ve got blisters on my fingers!” sends shivers down my spine. So although it probably is not my favourite Beatles’ song and it’s definitely not their best, it is my Beatles song so it will have to go to the Desert Island with me.
Moving on, my parents were not old when I was born but neither were they in their first flush of youth. I felt this keenly as a little girl. I think I wanted my Mum to be a similar to some of my friends’ Mums, some of whom were in their early twenties. Dad was frequently mistaken for my Grandad, having gone grey in his early twenties (and no doubt my sisters and I finished off the job for him!). Dad and I thought it was great fun when people referred to him as my grandfather and we enjoyed correcting their misapprehension.
What I think I was trying to say there was at the time there seemed to be a sizeable generation gap between my parents and me when it came to music. Dad admittedly liked the Beatles and had made a tape of most, if not all, of their albums for Panda and me. I can confidently say that is the reason I know the words to so many Beatles songs. Dad was always open to ideas but some of the stuff that came on Top of the Pops on a Thursday turned them both off. In my formative years I liked the glam rock bands: Sweet, Wizzard, Mudd, Slade and. although most people hate him nowadays, I can admit to having liked Gary Glitter. Sorry Gary but my second song is not one of yours. It’s going to have to be by Sweet because I saw their latest incarnation at Rebellion this year and I loved them. Blockbuster was probably my favourite at the time but it’s going to be Love is Like Oxygen because they made it so over the top and included Fanfare for the Common Man when they played it at Rebellion. Marvellous.
My School
Fast forward a few years now and my not particularly affluent parents have sent me and my two sisters to boarding school. My eldest sister went to one school and Panda and I went to another. By this time, I had “grown out of” glam rock and been thoroughly brain-washed by my two older sisters from any possibility of liking either the Osmonds or the Bay City Rollers. In retrospect it was an act of kindness. In their place I had Prog Rock, although I wasn’t particularly well up on this genre. I did get to like Trick of the Tail by Genesis but then, to me it’s not proper Genesis, is it, after Peter Gabriel has left? I still like Trick of the Tail and I have it on CD and listen to it from time to time but I would take a song from a different Genesis album to a desert island. A song that would last longer, has Peter Gabriel on vocals and one I could marvel at time and time again. I think Firth of Fifth fits the bill. It is a song of many parts with a fabulous piano part (which I have never bothered to work out, although I should have done). If you can, stick with it. It’s worth it.
One of the benefits of going to that school was the musical education I received there. The music department was second to none, headed by a charismatic teacher, who taught me from the third form on. I also continued with my piano lessons and had to practise daily, although sometimes some of the pianos were vandalised by other, older pupils. I sang in both school choirs: the big one and Small Choir, which was pretty select and you had to audition for it. I got chucked out of Small Choir because I didn’t bother going to Big Choir practises. I wept buckets at the time but my charismatic music teacher did not relent. I also learnt the Cello for about 4 years and managed to get my ABRSM Grade 4. One year I had a piece written by William Lloyd Webber, Lord Andrew’s father to learn for the exam. To be brutally frank, I was absolutely crap at it. Bloody dreadful. The school put me in for the exam but when it transpired that the composer of the piece and the Peer-to-be’s father was going to do the exam, I chickened out and lost my parents the price of the exam as it was non-refundable (check the website to find out how much that was in today’s prices).
Anyway, back to the desert island. I think it would be nice to have a reminder of some of the music I have played myself. I haven’t played the piano for probably about 2 years and I haven’t played it properly for about 12 years but there is one piece I came back to time and time again and would do again if I had a chance. It features in a really lovely Australian film, The Getting of Wisdom (unfortunately not available on LoveFilm.com). It’s Schubert’s Impromptu in G Flat Major (D899 Number 4) and it brings tears to my eyes.
While I was at school, I discovered Punk. This part of my life is well documented in another blog, well, actually a few of them, seeing as I’ve been a big fan of the music ever since. We were lucky because there was a cafe in the town that had plenty of punk singles on the jukebox (including for a short time only Walk on By by the Stranglers, which was supposed to be played at 33.3 rpm and therefore sounded strange at 45 rpm and was quickly replaced by Top of the Pops by the Rezillos). Panda and I used to go to the cafe to have a cup of tea and a fag (we were supposed to be doing after school games at the time but we opted for the walk option and walked to the cafe). While we were there, we would put our favourite songs on the jukebox, including Top of the Pops, Holidays in the Sun by the Pistols and Denis by Blondie. We would be joined by others from our School and kids from town and we got on famously until we had to go back to school for tea.
After I left school, I used to go into Central London most Saturdays and walk along the Kings Road, where punks used to congregate. I used to go into the punk boutiques and look longingly at the clothes I couldn’t afford. I got stuff from various sources, including charity shops and adapted them for punk wear. I think a Punk song on a desert island would have the duty of keeping me happy and there is no band better at making me smile than 3CR. Therefore, my fifth record is I Fell in Love with a Minger by 3CR. Fabulous!
I am fast running out of songs and I’m not even half way through my life yet so I think I’m going to have to skip a fair few years and you will find me married, with kids and living in Lancashire. In the previous few years I had discovered Rock and Roll, Indie and Opera. A bit of a strange mix, I know, but it’s amazing what an ex who had been a Teddy Boy, Radio and Spitting Image can do. I’ll skip the Rock and Roll part. That particular man deserves a whole blog to himself and oneday I might write it (and he might read it, that would be good). Indie probably came to my notice when I was at a friend’s house and watching Supergrass travelling across country on a double bed. Very catchy and it fired my interest. I bought a Lightning Seeds CD after hearing them on an Indie Compilation but I do find them very bland nowadays. I love singing along to Parklife and Oasis definitely have something but it has all faded back to insignificance as I’ve got older and my tastes have veered back to the extreme.
Opera was down to Spitting Image and Diva. Spitting Image ended once with the Pearl Fishers’ Duet and I loved it. Panda got me watch Diva when I was staying at hers once and Wilhelmenia Wiggins’ rendition of Ebben? Ne Andro Lontana blew me away. I bought a Cassette on the strength of these two small bits of Opera and it was entitled Golden Opera. It introduced me and also my then husband to Verdi, Mozart, Puccini, Bizet and others. We became interested to the point of ravenous in hearing the major Operas. My husband loved Verdi and Puccini; I went for Bizet and Puccini. We borrowed them from the library, we bought them on Cassette and then CD. We bought videos and went to watch the local amateur operatic society and saw English Touring Opera. It died down a little after a while but I have an abiding love for Puccini, Verdi, Bizet and Mascagni’s Cavalleria Rusticana. My sixth record, though, harks back to the beginnings for me and it is the Pearl Fishers’ Duet, although, to my utter chagrin, I could not find Spitting Image’s version on You Tube, so you’ll have put up with professional Opera singers instead.
As my kids grew up, they developed their own taste in music. None of them liked punk (although my older daughter, Charlie, is not averse to accompanying me to Stiff Little Fingers, Buzzcocks and Goldblade gigs). My eldest, Harry, first got into the more modern form of Metal at first; Rage against the Machine, Korn, Metallica and others whose names I cannot call to mind. His taste broadened as he got older and he got into Prog, including the well known bands like Genesis, Camel and Van der Graaf Generator and also into more modern Prog: Dream Theater, Porcupine Tree and others, while still listening to Thrash and other types of Metal. My older daughter likes 80s music (Nik Kershaw, Erasure), Emo (My Chemical Romance, The Used) and her perennial favourites, Inme and Westlife. My youngest, Bobbie, likes practically anything except punk!
I’m always open to new ideas and I was happy to listen to the music they liked. This was particularly good for Charlie and me because we had a few rough years during her adolescence where we simply did not get on and I can honestly say that were it not for Slipknot, one of us would not be around today. Slipknot, Rammstein and Linkin Park and various others brought Charlie and me together. They gave us common ground and made us realise that the other was human after all. Maybe singing along to Livin’ on a Prayer at the top of my voice with Charlie is taking mother-daughter bonding to extremes but it brought us closer. However, my seventh song will be Wait and Bleed by Slipknot because it reminds not only how bad things were before but also how good things got afterwards because of the men in strange masks.
So I’ve finally got to my eighth song and I’m really not sure what it should be. Things have changed a great deal over the past 12 months. I left my husband and kids just under a year ago. It was probably for the best that the kids stayed with their Dad, as I wanted to leave the area but did not want to uproot them. I’ve now got a lovely boyfriend (referred to earlier in this blog) and things do seem to be looking up. One thing that hasn’t changed, though, is my taste in music. Everything has been assimilated now (I’m a bit like the Borg in that respect) and I have a deep well of music to draw on to suit every occasion.
A few months ago, Darcy got himself Guitar Hero on Playstation. It’s a good game to have and we put it on sometimes when we have visitors. If my kids come round, Bobbie always has a go because she is pretty good at it. If someone hasn’t played it before, we can all guffaw as they miss the notes and twangy noises issue from the television. This is where I’ve decided my eighth and final record will come from. I discovered the song on Guitar Hero and loved it straightaway. There are other songs that I hadn’t heard before on the game but this one really spoke to my heart. I also got four stars on my first attempt, which was bound to make me biassed. So, in true award ceremony fashion, my eight song is Cliffs of Dover by Eric Johnson, a Guitar Hero favourite for me.
I skipped all the bits about how I would survive on a desert island (I wouldn’t) and if I would try to get off (I wouldn’t) but I will include the book and luxury bit. I would get a Bible, although I am not a Christian and haven’t been for many years, and the complete works of Shakespeare. Actually, I think I would ask not to have the Bible and to have a decent Pagan book, The Shining Paths by Dolores Ashcroft-Nowicki, so I could spend my time usefully. I would probably read Shakespeare’s Sonnets first and then move on to his tragedies. The book I would choose would be the twelfth book in Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series (which, admittedly, has not been written yet) because I’ve read the other eleven and I’m dying to find out what happens to all the characters I’ve come to love.
The luxury has been difficult for me. I would love a piano because I might be able to remove the rust from my playing and actually get half decent at Schubert’s Impromptu featured earlier. I imagine I would have problems, though, because I would need piano music and a piano stool and I don’t know how co-operative Kirsty would be. If I couldn’t have a piano, piano stool and music, I would ask for Chinese takeaways every night so I wouldn’t starve. I don’t know if they would be able to agree but I can live in hope.
Finally, there is always the question in Desert Island Discs, where Kirsty asks which record you would save when a large wave came and washed the collection away. I think it would be Cliffs of Dover. It’s still very much a novelty to me and it’s really upbeat and I would need as much upbeatery as it is possible to have if I was stuck on my own on a desert island. It was a close call because Boggy singing I Fell in Love with a Minger is also very upbeat but Cliffs of Dover has it by a whisker.
So there you are. Punky Rennie on Desert Island Discs. Informative as ever.
My memory is a little patchy now because it is now some 2 weeks since Rebellion finished and I haven’t got round to writing this yet. Fortunately, being reasonably organised when it comes to writing blogs, I’ve made some notes.
So, back to Rebellion 2008, Day 4, or Sunday as it is usually known. Darcy and I made a point of getting into Blackpool early so I could see the band I frequently refer to as my little friends. This is not a reference to their stature but their youth. They’re the same age as my older daughter and I feel an almost maternal pride when they play. So, my little friends, or, as they’re more commonly known, Middle Finger Salute. I know they sang Wannabe, famous for being one of the most irritating songs I’ve ever heard, and they sang it so much better than the Spice Girls did. They sang plenty of songs off various CDs, with guest appearances by Outl4w and The Exposed. My memory is sketchy but I know they did sing Because You’re Young with two members of Cock Sparrer.
Middle Finger Salute without Cock Sparrer
After that, we had dinner and then saw a little bit of The King Blues. Moving swiftly on, we moved swiftly on to the Arena and there caught Danger’s Close, which was much more our Cup of Tea. As we walked into the Arena I thought “I know this song!” and then realised it was a fast version of Punk/Oi! Legend, Lionel Ritchie’s blood curdling song “Hello”.
We saw a bit of The Restarts’ set and then went off to have some tea. After that, we went up to the Bizarre Bazaar to see Neck’s acoustic set. They didn’t show up so Frank Sidebottom filled in, to a rapturous reception. His version of Anarchy in the UK was surreal and hilarious. I was suitably impressed. After Frank was Ed Tudorpole or, as I used to know him, Tenpole Tudor. We watched his sound check and then buggered off to wander round the stalls.
Now for an admission it pains me to have to make. After being so impressed last year with their set, I managed to miss East End Badoes. This is dreadful and I will be paying the price for my omission for the rest of the year and well into 2009. Very remiss of me indeed and I can only apologise.
We wandered in to see The Sweet and caught the second half of their set. I really loved this band when I was a little junior school girl and it was a good nostalgia trip to see them play live. I should, at this point, commend the organisers of Rebellion for including bands like The Sweet, Slade (last year) and Chas and Dave in the line up. I don’t think there are many punks and skinheads out there who will only listen to punk, Oi! and Ska and there are going to be plenty who remember Glam Rock with affection. There was a sizeable crowd in there when The Sweet (minus the now defunct Brian Connolly and other original members) launched into “Love is like Oxygen”. This included a reasonable sized chunk of Fanfare for the Common Man (as performed by Emerson, Lake and Palmer) and I loved it. They followed with Blockbuster (I got rather excited at that point because I LOVED the song when I was a kid) and Ballroom Blitz.
Sweet back in the heady days of the 1970s
I was almost delirious as I left when they had finished but not quite as delirious as I was when we returned about 15 minutes later for The UK Subs.
This was the original line-up including Paul Slack, who signed my jeans – see Tight Jeans, Romance and Sid Vicious for the full story. Sorry about getting your name wrong, by the way, Paul but I was believing something I read on the Internet and not trusting my memory. Well, they played loads of 2-3 minute masterpieces (The UK Subs have NOT forgotten their roots), including Lady Esquire (which used to be a personal statement for me in my wild youth), TV Blues, Tomorrow’s Girl, CID and finishing off with two songs I love: Warhead (I sang along enthusiastically whilst punching the air) and Stranglehold, which reduced me to a frenzy of bouncing up and down, singing along at the top of my voice and pointing, well, pointedly, at the stage. This is a band I absolutely love, I’ve never seen them play badly and they never disappoint.
Warhead. I had this single - marvellous
After that, it was back to the Pavilion for the last time to watch Neck. This time, they made an appearance, although it was rather fashionably late. Darcy had introduced me to Neck (not literally, just the songs) and I was looking forward to seeing them play live. The lead singer reminded me of a teddy boy I used to know in my mispent youth. The banjo player looked just like a West Ham supporting skinhead, the fiddle player looked like a mad hippie, the bass player looked a bit emo and I couldn’t see the drummer. I just knew we were going to get along. There was some heckling from some unfriendly skinheads for a while but then they found something better to do (presumably go and watch the 4 Skins). There was also a couple of skinheads dancing like loons near the front. It’s a good way to dance to Neck as I discovered when they played Everyday’s St Patrick’s Day and I was unable to contain myself any longer. Before that, they played The Fields of Athenry – a marvellous anthem about the transportation of a man for stealing corn to feed his starving family during the famine. When they finished after a decent length set, it was disappointing to have to set off back home but I was completely drained of energy and I don’t think I could have lasted much longer.
Neck, shortly before I collapsed from sheer exhaustion
All in all, it was a good weekend, nay, a brilliant weekend and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. What made it even better was having Darcy with me. Music is an enjoyable solitary pastime but it’s so much better having somebody to share it with. I’m now looking forward to Rebellion 2009. Bring it on!
I am a 40-something born again punk with a 3 kids. I work in an insurance company in the North West of England. I have three tattoos and 5 piercings. Eventually, I will have more tattoos but not just yet. I need more funds first.
My favourite bands are Cockney Rejects, 999, Anti Nowhere League, the Straps and Middle Finger Salute.
Pet hates include 4X4s. I'll add more as I think of them.
