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The Jazz Butcher Conspiracy : Mailing List : 1993
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Date: Mon, 29 Nov 93 13:57:29 GMT
From: Jim.Davies[at]
Subject: saturday gig brief report

En attendant l'autobus de l'amour (?) --- Big Saturday in New Cross

Whoa. We're back. Strange weekend. Hit fogbound London Friday from the
M4. Motorway closed at Reading due to bits of vee-hickles scattered
liberally like broken crockery. Picking our way through the wreckage to a
Robyn Hitchcock gig in Islington. Which is cancelled due to flu.

Spend the night in weird flat in Brixton. Woken 5 a.m. by hungry feline
wielding squeaky rubber mouse. Saturday took the beat-up VW to New Cross
Hell. If you thought it was grim up North, you've never been to SE14. We
were worried that we might not get in. Or out.

Support band the Wishplants: maybe we're cloth-eared, but to us they
sounded like donkeys in feedback. Music to fill paper bags with. But NO
inflight magazine. We hid upstairs upstairs in the Venue. Ah, the Venue.
A hundred floors, a million red-carpeted corridors, a bad dream interior.

And the people? There's me. And Fleur. And Paul from Sheffield. And
Paul's mate. And Andy's cousin. And maybe another twenty or so. To see
the band, that is. There are a few hundred others who are waiting for the
bands to fuck off so the club can start.

Whoa. He's back. Pat on stage. With Dave Cavanagh, someone says? Not
the journalist from Select? Not the 17th guitarist in the Blue Aeroplanes?
And a bassist who looks like Captain Sensible's kid brother. The day
finally makes sense for the faithful. Guitar guitar bass drum machine.

She's a Yo-Yo, Bakersfield, Mr Odd, Shirley Maclaine, She's on Drugs,
Sister Death, President Chang. Maybe a couple more. They played well in
the face of adversity. They looked good. Sensible bassist leaps too much
but let off due to obvious passion for songs. Almost in tears.

After sound thrashing of cocaine aristocracy, Pat retreats. Throws down
telecaster. Bass flung after it. Feedback. Mr Cavanagh, if it is he,
carefully places guitar in flight case and walks. And it's over. The
smoke starts, the lights go down, the club begins.

Pat. We love you. At the very least, we love your music. The new album
is the best thing you've ever done. No question.

You deserve more than this.


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