Thursday night’s gig was something of an occasion for the
Nightingales, Wolverhampton being the band’s adopted home. The venue – the
Slade Roomz – is a curious place; cavernous, forbidding and austere. Apart from
the posters which advertise forthcoming gigs, the walls are completely covered
by photographs of local heroes Slade (a raucous, working class glam band from
the early 1970s, best known for their ever popular Christmas single – reissued
locally every year since it was first put out in 1973 – (We Wish You A Wombling) Merree Chrissmas Evrybody. I’m told by
locals who are in the know that Slade’s influence extends beyond the body of
music they produced, and into the educational sphere. Their penchant for
deliberately mis-spelling the titles of their singles (hits included Coz I’m Luvvly; Take Me Bak Wum; Gudbuy 2 Fame) has, it seems, been a huge
influence on the literary capabilities of the youth of Wolverhampton.
The band arrived at the venue with good spirits, which they
proceeded to drink rapidly so as to move on to the rider, kindly provided by
the venue. A swift soundcheck ensued, conducted by the bands crack sound
engineer, Paul ‘Carpet’ Squires. I watched astonished as the normally reticent
Squires transformed before my eyes into a bellowing, cajoling harridan,
haranguing each member of the band (and, it must be said, the venue staff,
too...) in turn to adjust this pedal up, that amplifier down.
An even more suprising transformation occurs in the band
itself, who timidly submit themselves to Squires’ tirade of abuse. I watched
amazed as the normally towering, statuesque figure of Robert Lloyd seemed to
crumble and shrivel in the face off Squires’ insistence that he ‘sing one more
fucking line, you lazy-arsed excuse for a frontman.’ There is something quite
shocking in the sight of two 50-odd year old men - Lloyd and Apperley - with their arms around each
other, tears streaming down their faces as they try to comfort each other in
the face of such abuse, like traumatised infantrymen in the trenches of The
Somme.
Yet thirty minutes later, I walk into the dressing room to find
Apperley, Squires and Lloyd, along with the rest of the entourage, sipping
beers together and engaging in that easy, comradely badinage which is the
privilege of old friends and battle-scarred warriors.
As the support act Jump
The Shark take the stage, the audience filters in from the bar and watches
appreciatively as the twelve-year-old musicians put their various instruments
through their paces. The twin guitars remind me of Lloyd and Verlaine at their
crystaline best, while the bass player provides both sinew and muscle to the
skeletal guitar phrases. Drums colour the sound and provide the motivation for
the intricately-structured songs.
The drummer is also the singer, and the contrast between the
yearning, ethereal voice and the earthy pulse of the drums – both emanating
from the diminutive figure barely visible behind the kit – is both the skin and
soul of the sound. The band’s parents watch proudly from the audience whilst,
equally proudly, their nannies watch from the wings, clutching glasses of warm
milk and plates of chocolate chip cookies for that triumphant moment when the
band leave the stage to the enthusiastic applause of their proud parents.
Next up is Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington reprising his curious
acapella hip-hop act, but this time to an audience who are clearly familiar
with this da-daism-meets-situtionism-for-tea-at-the surrealism-cafe collision
of flint-eyed social commentary, wry cultural criticism, and intricate,
anarchic wordplay. The audience anticipate the choruses before Chippington has
even begun the piece. “One mile!” they shout as Chippington glares at the crowd
from behind the rim of his can of Stella Artois, challenging them to reflect
upon the journeys which they must all embark upon, journeys which will take
them deep into the darkest, most threatening alleyways and boulevards of their
own individual Torquays.
One particular devotee, a woman, is transported into a
kind of delerium by Chippington’s provocations. Trembling with emotion, she is
barely able to stand and must prop herself against a column in the centre of
the room. Cackling deleriously, she chants fragments from Chippington’s ouevre,
urging him to go further than the one mile he requires of her. The mesmeric
power that Chippington wields over his audience is as terrifying as it is
fascinating.
And then the Nightingales take the stage to a ripple of
polite applause. Lloyd senses that, after the hypnotic, numbing effect of
Chippington’s set, he must work hard now, if he is to win over the audience to
the perverse contrariness of the band’s new material. As the group take up
their positions Lloyd moves stage centre, fixes a steely eye on a point
somewhere in the middle distance, takes a long drink from his trademark plastic
bottle of cold tea and, with four beats from Kitson’s famous ‘Stix’ drumsticks,
opens the attack with the band’s surprise viral hit “Bullet For Gove.”
For the next hour, in an unbroken tsunami of jagged chords,
fractured bass lines, and a cannonade of drums, Lloyd assaults the audience in
a series of voices, from the warbling menace of “Mutton To Lamb” to the
dribbling salaciousness of “The Grueseome Threesome”; from the hoarse intimacy
of “Say It With Flowers” to the bellowing pomposity of “Dumb and Drummer”.
The set shape-shifts across a myriad different tempos,
styles, and genres, backing vocals jabbing through at strategic points to
support or challenge Lloyd’s lyrical dominance. And no-one challenges Lloyd’s
supremacy more than Fliss ‘Sticks’ Kitson, who lobs vocal hand grenades at the
relentless platoons of lyrics spewed forth by her ally and nemesis. Vocally, Apperley
and Schmid contribute light and shade, with Schmid in particular refusing to
conform to the bourgeois hegemony of ‘the tune’.
The set is once again seemless, from beginning to end – no breaks,
no pauses, no prisoners – and it ends abruptly to shell-shocked silence, the
audience momentarily stunned by the sonic assault they have just endured. Lloyd
seizes the opportunity, and without waiting for permission, foists an encore on
the exhausted and battered audience. A challenging re-imagining of the TLC
classic “Unpretty” is first up, with Lloyd proving surprisingly convincing in
his guise as a bruised teenage hip-hop honey, wrestling in her naive way with
the complex ethical dilemmas thrown up by the futile desire for physical perfection. In Lloyd’s hands, the song becomes even more poignant as
we realise that no amount of plastic surgery or cosmetic makeovers can ever
reverse the ravages of age after a life of decadent self-abuse.
“Unpretty” is swiftly followed by what I believe to be a reworking
of an obscure ‘B’ side from the now long-forgotten glam-rock group Wizziwig’s one and only 7” single. (Decca,
1971. Cat. No. 13507/2b. Produced by Shel Talmy. Engineered by Willy ‘Wally’
Williams. Billboard Chart Position 99 for one week.) In the hands of the
Nightingales, the song – Don’tcha Rock
– has mutated from the jaunty singalong original into a brawling, belligerent attack
on the futility of rock ‘n’ roll as a means of changing the world for the
better. The band leave the stage to tumultuous applause from Mark ‘Ace’ Jones
at the merchandise stall, the audience having rushed next door to the bar and the adjacent toilets the
instant that the music stopped.
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