There’s a ticket tonight that is hotter than nuclear fission. It’s the only place to be. It's the lateral earache epitome! It’s the auditory equivalent of a Dutch ping-pong volcano! It’s the fossilized clitoris of the lady in the lake! It’s hair colouring rampant with a legless pelvic motion. And it is free, children, it is free! Expression is the first word in our alphabet. Repression will be locked in the Austrian cellar of lost youth. To that end there won’t be a private standing army, bald and black-clad, turning away bearded 90 year olds for lack of photo ID. This revolution will not be supervised.
So quick-skipper, do you feel jaded by modern music, like it says nothing to you about your life, that it’s all got a bit hackneyed and tame? That ideas have been crapped all over by ballroom bung jockeys? That all the soundwaves have been mutilated by October’s idiots? Where are the outlaws, the real outlaws? Where’s Johnny Cash, pearl-handled revolvers aimed at the laconic fetlock of mediocrity, astride the opulent embryo of creative genius? Are you bored to the back gusset of groups like Jail Them Now, that whiney, Z-chord, skinny-trousered, peabodied, yellow-bellied, daisy-chained brigade of leg-slapping thigh-breeders? Those whelps who, until last Thursday when they were crowned Kings of Bile by the NME, were retaking their sixth year of BSc Sensation Management? You sick to the flaming bin man of The Dawn of the Pocket Calculator, Montenegran electroclashishists who think that digging your uncle’s Casio keyboard up from the patio is going to give you some slipper-powered slave-buggy to stardom? Have you coalesced furtively around the footsteps of suicide as soon as YouTube serves you up a ten-draw of cold-played mechanized griefutainment? Everyone knows that Autistic Agony Uncle and Yobbish Rhubarb Spree are yesterday’s news.
Which is why we got this big event planned. The event to end all events. But the catch is, we can’t tell you where it is. Like the raves of the eighties, the location must be secret. I’m afraid you’ll have to blunder around in the dark like Stevie Wonder savagely deprived of his four remaining senses.
So whattawegot?
We got the Unlimited Refills, the fastest and most caffeine-addicted hardcore outfits currently gritting their teeth in Mexico.
We have Goth love songs from Mr Lucifer Pillowtalk.
We got the Graduated Sneeze Orchestra - no instruments - just 112 people afflicted with miracle grow tuberculosis, influenza and H5-911 induced whooping cough.
We all know that burlesque is the French word for stripping, right? So watch the Grotesque Burlesque - obese old women riddled with sexually-transmitted illnesses. It’s fun for all the family. And many family-planners have been said to be amused at bawdy jokes about race.
The Glenys Kinnock Nightmare will be doing one of their legendary ‘laser gigs’, where a thousand plimsole-encumbered ‘main socket shockers’ blind in perpetuity while the lithium battery cheat is enabled. Anyway Glenys won’t be able to make it tonight, she has an important vote at the European Parliament to attend, but standing in for her will be a seven foot batik phallus. The drummer for the Nightmare spent six of his thirty eight formative years being shot in the eye with a Nintendo light gun. That made him as sharp as nettle and radon homebrew. He does seem a little perturbed, however, by the sight of poorly animated 8-bit ducks. These of course will be released continuously should the taxi full of breadknives fail to appropriately goo the temporals.
We got Kid Fizzy and the Interrupted Perverts – I’d like to say more about them, ladies and gentlemen, but the bye-laws of decency prevent me. Their single ‘Do You Hear Norway In Your Sleep?’ is number 7,407 on the Lidl download chart. Tomorrow the world!
If you thought Robert Mugabe was on his way out, think again. He’s made a career change, become a superstar DJ and rebranded himself as Bobby Mu. See him go bombastic in his polling booth. Enjoy his beats, cuts and scratches – literally.
General Glancing Blow and the Dosh Wheelbarrow Boys make for interesting listening – ‘The Cold Fisssss of Daybreak’ conveys a heartfelt wonderment with the sensation of wiping baby gristle from a Balinese-engineered shovel.
We got Carbonated Grandmother Secret, who have always been Wayne Rooney’s favourite band. They’re dominating his I-pod at the moment.
We got Mrs Clapper-Flo Cripplebrandy, fresh from her hip operation, the 87-year-old guitarist’s guitarist. She does the Pete Townsend windmill, she does the Hendrix axe-burning, she does the Angus Young push yourself along the floor in a school uniform! She’s metagenius. A lozenge is for minutes, ladies and gents, not just a Christmassy afterthought!
We got Creeping Jesus Industries – neo-gospel post G-funk collective trying to spread creationism into our schools. So nothing sinister about them.
The Muddy-Knee Turnstylists – on-stage they wear green bodywarmers, riding boots and play guitars whittled into the shape of Purdey shotguns. They did the official anthem for The Cuntryside Alliance - that’s spelt with the ‘o’ taken out by the way. The anthem’s called ‘A Funslot Full of Buckshot.’ Bobby Mu’s on that too.
Clifton Brogue Slaz Tempo – dunno who they are but I owe an awful lot of money to their manager.
Watching Buddha’s Eyebrows – a performance art piece by Tasmanian recidivist Carlos ‘Youth’ Hostel-Torchwood.
Sonic alchemist Frip Clawhammer and his sound collage of over 6 different types of 16bpm car alarms, jellyfish warning sirens and the awkward noises made by someone hiding a motorbike up a tree.
We got 99 Punctuating Pi – mathematical sequencecore fresh from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. For their encore they set complex astrophysics formulae to emo-gymnastic deciduous cesspit music. A little bit clever when they divide it all by one before going into cosine mode.
Swordfish Lampoon take a wry look at the ever-hilarious traditions of native Idaho green-grappling. This was explained to me in passing but my mode of transport was under attack at the time. And I refuse to crawl on radio for anyone...
Garbled Spacecraft Anointment are the only rockers to have outrun the creation of existence. Their current record is 62 and a half looks to be swallowed shortly, so they’ll be a little bit more red-faced than usual. Give Marmaduke a wide berth at the bar or you might spot the inception of time itself. That’s the bit when God set Aries’ double-bed on fire, flcking ash after an all-night squeal-thru party. Bloody Rupert Murdoch!
We got Futile Vigil For Heath Ledger – they’re pointless and passé – but in a really good way! The cleavage has said to resemble a woman’s breasts but satellite intelligence is a little sketchy on that one.
The Spent Cartridges are best known for promoting safe sex around the black country.
Their beautiful love song ‘All My Best Drugs’ is available on CDs pressed in the shape of France
it’s a whole new format. But one that is sadly only compatible with Carla Bruni’s armpit ringtone
player.
Straight after that is is Rose Hipnol and the Thankless Violations. Maybe we’ll have to change
that. Hang on ... you say they caught him where? Look can you get my nephew on the phone at
least? Ahem.
We got the Jill Dando Experience, as morally-bereft as WH Smith’s eugenic magazine rack. Peddling rocket fuel to geriatrics is one thing, but sponsoring unmanned flights to the middle of Dando’s enduring memory is quite another. Musically enthralling with a hint of burnt coriander and musket balls rubbed knowingly.
We got the original funkdamentalists the Al-Zarqawi Blues Explosion, back from the dead for one night only with their tragic lament on the Iraq war, ‘Fallujah, it’s raining men, Fallujah.’ Who booked them, anyway? Phwoo. We’re going to hell in a blue rinse bother wagon.
This show will be the last word, the final judgement, apocalypse, ragnarok, end time. After this show there will be no more shows. There will be a rupture in reality itself – it’s that colossal. Like a zenthogenic experience, you’ll hear all that music is, ever was and ever will be simultaneously. The valves of your brains will spin off into the ether. Your ears will be blown clean of the tar of mediocrity. But whatever you do, ladies and gentlemen, don’t look into the laser unless you have an acute case of tinnitus or we’ll be having a mucus party in the pantry of downstairs yesterday all over again.
