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Pop Tarts, Marlo and Blubber.
Live from West One Four.
By Matt.
Let me start this, my first little foray into the torrid world of musical pseudo-intellectualism with a little disclaimer.
The phrase those who can't do teach those who can't teach, criticise. Still holds enough silicone to send its advocates reeling from a torrent of longwinded retorts from critics of all genres. Even in it's current form whereby:-
- those who Do are predominatly attractive, commercially acceptable figureheads fo some industry iceberg, who when not swelling the fantasy repertoire of FHM beerboys provide the meat of gossip columns for teenage girlie mags. Those who can't Do set up an all singing, all dancing five piece money machine, try to screww more starlets then Dave Bailey and retire to the south of France. Those who can't maage even that, sit on bar stools in an around Soho informing all and sundry how they could have been a contender or go to Art college. Inevitably, due to the law of averages and a rather sordid process of social filtration one of these select few attains a place hihg enough in some culture consciousness to sell their opinions as gospel-
The insinuation is that this proverbial Colt 45 artistic politics blows a hole large enough in the reams of social philosophy and overly wordy rhetoric that are the building blocks of any "good" critic, to allow us to see them for what they truly are. An opinion, or rather a mistaken belief that by using as many long words as possible, in sentences that are nothing short of grammatical terrorism, whilst dismissing someone out of hand, one hopes to gain some semblance of credibility.
The point of all this is twofold, So I too can show off and use long words and witty phrases, secondly I myself attended an Art college and am there fore relegated to the ass end of the above mentioned pecking order as well as being subject to the same inane attempts to shrug of my middle class roots via the above mentioned criteria.
That over and done with I can begin. On an unassuming Wednesday eve in mid Aprill 1999 I found myself going up the stairs to West one four, formerly the Orange, in the guise of a writer for an up a coming fanzine the same one I had used earlier in the day to get my name on the guest list. The names on the Bill for the nights entertainment, smacked of the usual run of youthful guitar based vexations, that seemed to be making a brief resurgence in music of late. Or so I Thought.
The First band were almost over as I entered the fray, (I'm sorry guys I can't remember your name and I was getting a drink thus the tail end of last tune passed me by), however my suspicions were aroused by the unusual volume of people that swamped the bar and sat ensconced in front of the stage. Something was about to go down I could smell it. the intermission between the band I had just missed and the one I was about to see dragged by, the result of some half understood excitement and the incessant rock with a capital fist that they insist on using as grouting at these places. The some guys marched on stage and announced that some individuals known as the Pop Tarts where here for our listening pleasure.
I liked them immediately. Anyone with nuts and imagination to disrupt the usual carousel of indie somethings that parade themselves endlessly round the few backrooms that seem to qualify as the London music scene, gets me hard. This metaphorical hardness assumed a more tangible form as the five girls in question, or rather the multiethnic softsoul swingbeat collective, slutted off like they had a pair, cheap dance routines, wanky lyrics, and plenty of pouting included. Each tune, and there where six as I recall, took a witty dig at various facets of girl group superstardome, throwing up for the tabloids, posing for page three. My favourite being the thought provoking and sensitive way in which the quintet alluded to the disparagement in the cerebral capabilities of these self appointed harbingers of teenage morality, and their subsequent suitability in their chosen role, in the tune 1+1+2+6=10 (or something like that). I must admit that by the end of the set the joke for me was over, any more and it could have turned nasty, but I feel I obliged to raise a toast, to an amusing, clever little break from the norm, thumbs up from me girls.
Half way through the next intermission I looked up from my ashtray to find that the size of the audience seemed to have swelled to shoudler rubbing proportions, I decided that it warranted an investigation and if nothing else gave me ample opportunity to indulge my penchant for frotting. It took me a matter of seconds to insinuate myself in the midst of a herd of indiegirls barely the legal side of consent, enabling me to eavesdrop on their innocent and excited banter whilst violating several public decency laws. Thus I heard the word, Marlo the winners of Saturday nights new takent bonanza Get Your Act Together hosted by none other than cheeky Rohnin Keating, where playing next. Well what was a guy to do. I just let myself get swept away by the mindless abandon that seems to pass for excitement nowadays, and awaited with sweaty palms. First onstage, strode the lead guitarist and the drummer, who proceeded to whip the audience into a frenzy, which wasn't all that hard being that it was composed mostly of friends and family. Which made the few dark corners, from which not even a polite clap was forthcoming, even more noticeable. The crescendo of rolling drums and occasional guitar noises inspired yet another guitarist, and eventual the bassist/singer, to emerge to thunderous applause....from their friends. To their credit the bands obvious confidence was not marred by any affectation one might have expected from somone the nation had just voted the next big thing, well the part of it that stays in on Saturday nights and watches the increasingly obnoxious offerings the television wafts in our general direction.
And then it began.
To be brutal Marlo's music isn't the music I would listen to by choice, so I was forced to view this sonic spectacle with the objective diplomacy of an Art teacher shown yet another picture of a fruit bowl. Mainly because I was one of those fruit bowl drawing kids, and the belief that no matter how derivative the form of expression at least it's their own stuff.
The acoustics and size of the venue meant that sound was large and the limited use of effects kept it from dissolving into some indiscernible bend off, and they where tight. Unfortunately, for me, the hole preformance was undermined by the fact that any band sporting a bassist/singer draws inescapable parallels with Motorhead, and frankly, when held to a candle like that the B/S in question would have to be able to suck a football through a garden hose to even make a dent, but that's just a wee personal perversion.
The set was rounded off with what I assume was the tune that propelled them into the hearts and minds of all the thousands of above mentioned individuals who deemed them the soundtrack to Saturday evening TV, preceded with a whole bunch of thankyous and whatnot. Wherein lies my main beef and possibly the most offensive affront to anyone who has a soft spot for Rock'n'Roll, be it music or mentality. In the midst of his congratulatory spiel the frontman expressed his thanks to their choreographer. Now I put it to you that the fine line between Poprock and Nuts out Rock'n'Roll is as hazy an area as between pudding and desert, but the presence of a choreographer is going too far. Where is the organised chaos of Jimi Hendrix, Motorhead, Slayer, New Kingdom, and the countless other exponents of the bat head eating philosophy. Been and gone mate. The music maybe but the song remains the same. All the little flicks of the more sinister air. Under the guidance of the affore mentioned choreographer Marlo had, however unwittingly, crossed that line and planted the flag of their musical sensibilities in the music for money camp. I realise that I am leaving myself open to a broadside of abuse, envy, gotta pay the bills and all that crap. Well I say there's ways and there's ways. It all boils down to weather you want that fat house and a comfortable ride, or something a little less predictable and a little more real.
Sanctimoious ranting aside and another intermission later the stage was graced yet again by the final act Blubber. I had seen these guys before, and they never fail to pull the leg. A five piece take on the early Beastie Boys formula, with a greater bias towards live instruments, one could be tempted to dismiss them as another chip off the brat rap rock block, not so. Admittedly they do lack anthems like, Fight for Right to Party, but the whole performance is underpinned by such personality that it manages to transcend it's cliched roots, becoming a genuine interpretation. The Marlo massive had since left the building leaving the rest of us to get real in their wake. From the off, the cheap classical stage intro shattered by trade mark hard bass riffs, thumping drums and throaty rantings, got the remainder of the audience carving ridiculous shapes all over the place. Essential the strenght of the band lies in not what they do but how they do it. It's rare that one is inspired to really get low down and dirty by bands that play at these sort of venues, Blubber hit ther mark. Their cut and paste approach to the inherently rap ethic of lyrical piracy, results in some amusing little quirks, "my mind on my mullet, an my mullet on my mind"; twinned with enough gimmicks and stage distractions to warrant a government health waring, (the organ playing blow up doll, and the pinstriped Doctor M and his rodeo clinic being my two choice cuts). Leave an interesting tast in ones ear a smooth yet eclectic fushion of Metal, B Boy and toilet humour, as manifest in titles like Sniff the Watch Strap.
For some the whole idea of Blubber is overshadowed by the spectre of petty notions concerning Rap PC. The fact that they are white, don't sing about guns, ghetto survival and all the other trappings of authentic Rap couture, being the big beefs. All this conveniently forgets the documented roots of the Rap as, not only a multiracial thing, but as party music. Personally I like to take it for what it is, some fun.
Well that about raps up my emission for now, time to wipe myself clean and get back to the sordid mish mash of distractions I try and pass off as a life. Thanks you where wonderful.
