This was
supposed to be a review of the Distorted Truth gig in Pivo Pivo, but
my evening didn't really go as planned.
So
instead if I was to keep a diary then I suppose this is what I would
have filled it with.
Some days
you have to look at the flow of humanity and question where we are
going.
Underneath
Central Stations Guinness record breaking glass ceiling you could be
forgiven for thinking that in the vast expanse of space it would
hold a microcosm of the whole world.
All of
the weird and wonderful could press shoulders with the everyday and
the mundane.
Yet when
I arrive all I can see is predominately three different groups of
people.
There's
the nine to fivers looking worn down and killing time till they can
get home and shut the world out.
Wage
slaves of which I am one.
Then
there's the people who have fallen through the cracks of society and
are looking to find something to get them through the night into the
next day.
It could
be fifty pence for a cup of tea, or a couple of pounds that they can
put towards whatever their chosen oblivion provider is.
Hanging
about, and adding sizeably to the throng, are the tribal kids.
Look at
us! We are all so different in our uniformity.
There's
nothing wrong with their naivety.
They're
just filling time between the innocence of youth and the reality of
adulthood.
Is this
really it though?
Between
birth and death is this really all we can be?
Of all
the sparks of electricity firing inside our heads and carrying ideas
and dreams from one place to another is this the sum of our efforts?
Thank
fuck FOPP was still open and its array of what is the end product of
creativity could distract me for a while and lift me from the edge of
the pit of despair that I sometimes hover over.
The box
set of War Child seven inch singles I picked up was the perfect dark
cloud buster.
Fifteen
singles featuring artists covering a classic with the original
version being on the b-side.
Now that
what I call a result.
Kelly set
her sights on the limited edition metal box set of AC/DCs Black Ice
album and quickly secured one.
A nice
purchase that if I was flush with cash I would have grabbed myself.
I'm sure
that some would ask why a man of my age would want a CD that comes in
a metal tin with some stickers, a plectrum and a large flag?
I would
ask why a man of my age wouldn't want one?
Wetherspoons
provided a cheap meal for us in the gap between the shops closing and
the gig starting.
It really
is the poor man's version of dining out.
My
southern fried chicken wrap with chips is as exotic as my finances
stretch it seems.
The gig
wasn't really a normal gig at all and instead was doubling up as a
surprise twenty first birthday party for Glasgow punk Lisa Vermin.
I'd like
to say I know her, but I have only ever spoken to her maybe twice in
passing.
Lovely
girl though, and it was heart warming to see that people care enough
for someone to make the effort to arrange a whole gig just for them.
No one
does that unless the person is rather special.
Lovely
really, and a good example of what the punk scene should be, but
often isn't.
Met a
young guy at the gig.
He had
the punk uniform of tartan bondage trousers, sleeveless band shirt et
al, but I was pleasantly surprised when we started chatting and he
revealed himself to be open minded in general about music and life
itself.
It was
refreshing to meet someone of such tender years who fundamentally got
what punk is.
He could
learn some old dogs some new tricks.
He works
down south on yachts because it's the job he wants and feels
passionate about.
I suspect
no one will steam roller him into fitting a tidy box to suit their
expectation.
Buzzbomb
were as good as I expected them to be.
Between
the three guys in the band they can vocally cover anything you want.
From melodic pop punk in the style of The Ramones to some bone
crunching rock.
It's all
down with a great deal of energy and the covers of Sonic Reducer and
Halloween were given a bit of a slap and delivered at 100mph.
My
enjoyment of them was impacted on a bit by a growling stomach pain
that was becoming increasingly distracting as they played.
When they
finished I made a bee line for the toilets and lets just say that is
anyone has the number for the Chernobyl clean up crew then can they
pass it on to Pivo Pivo.
It's
entirely possible that my anus looks like a gunshot wound.
I could
have left the gig at this juncture, but big Kyle Thunder of Filthy
Little Secret and The Bucky Rage had told me I really need to see
Alkotron so many times that I felt obligated to hang about.
I'm glad
I did.
Starting
off with an instrumental in the vein of the Shadows, albeit a Shadows
without Cliff and featuring a thumping bass line.
After
that it was a case of all bets were off.
Sometimes
it sounded like JJ Burnell on bass and David Gilmour on guitar.
On a
couple of songs I was taken back to the leafy glades of Glastonbury
where out of my face on Gorbachovs I'd dance to extended dub reggae
jams bathed in strobe lights.
Mental
stuff.
There's
really no point in trying to pigeon hole the band as that's not what
they are about.
Their
whole set just screams an appreciation of music.
It's an
aural magical mystery tour of excellence.
Highly
recommended to the open minded.
Then my
guts started to issue a four minute warning again and after another
major evacuation I decided that leaving was a better idea that
ruining Lisa's party.
I have no
doubt that Splinter and Distorted Truth would have continued the
evening in fine style.
