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John Peel Tribute Night: SJ Esau/ The Get-Outs/Mario Vendredi/ID Lab/A Lion/ Twocsinak/ White
Trash Ambition/ War Against Sleep/ Caroline Martin/ Big Joan
Seymour’s Family Club 20 January
Someone once tried to convince John Peel of the superiority of CDs over vinyl
by pointing to the total absence of surface noise. His terse and caustic response
was “Look mate, life has surface noise”.
Watching this Weimar cabaret played out in a working-men’s club, it was
hard not think of that Peel-ian aphorism, and to see there a celebration of life’s
surface noise - the badly fitting, the angular, the obtrusive, the anomalous
and the downright strange. In short, the very qualities that Peel ceaselessly
sought out and promoted in contrast to the mulish sterility of the merely aesthetic,
i.e. the anti-life.
The brainchild of latter-day Peel-favourite Steveless, this was very much a wake
put together by the Choke family to honour the passing of the Patriarch of Crank
to that great Beefheart gig in the sky. And like all such family gatherings it
was also an excuse for much wilful eccentricity, perversity and pissing about.
Each of the mourners brought to the table a couple of their own offerings along
with a selection of inspirational tunes (The Fall, Joy Division, T Rex, PJ Harvey
etc.) that would’ve tickled the old curmudgeon a particularly lurid shade
of pink.
The aura of pentecostalist knees-up was accentuated by the sight Mario Vendredi
whipping up the crowd to a frenzy with an a capella rendition of ‘John
the Revelator’, with all the fervour of a strung-out shaman. This set a
standard of bizarritude that couldn’t quite be matched by the energetic
electro-clash of ID Lab nor the scrofulous strivings of A Lion, but was cranked
up again a couple of notches by Twocsinak’s bravura recital of the entire
lyrical content of The Fall’s ‘Bend Sinister’ in under 4 minutes – all
to a gabba backing-track. You could only imagine Mark E. Smith nodding in approval
at the efficiency and lack of deference to melodic constraints.
By now the framed portraits of Cliff Richard and the poster signed by the cast
of “Cats” were looking on with more than mild concern. It was a concern
that was stoked by White Trash Ambition’s refusal to play anything other
than variations of The Fall’s ‘Totally Wired’ - less a cover
version than a public statement of faith. The event was building up a head of
steam now that couldn’t even be derailed by suspected counter-insurgency
operations on War Against Sleep’s keyboard. A hastily miked-up piano meant
that if you ever wondered what would have happened if Chas’n’Dave
had replaced Marc Bolan after his high-speed tree-hugging, then wonder no more.
The summoning of these ghostly rock talismen provided the perfect platform for
Caroline Martin. For some time now she has been specialising in the musical equivalent
of plastination – ritually flaying and disemboweling songs and then putting
them back together with all their viscera on full display. It’s a technique
that works to perfect effect on Hank Williams’ ‘Lovesick Blues’,
turning its jaunty bluegrass bounce into a drawn-out valium howl. “Teenage
Kicks” gets a similar treatment, and when she sings “wanna hold her/wanna
hold her tight” with a measured ache, it’s is the stuff of raw desire
stripped of the adolescent belligerence of the original.
That just left Big Joan to keep up the pace and keep the peace and prevent the
by now gibbering, baying pack from ripping the family club apart in an ecstasy
of grief and despair. This they did with some aplomb, ripping into the crowd
with the usual controlled aggression and belting out a stupendous cover of “50
ft Queenie”. Looking like a cross between Kim Deal and Veronica Lake, lead
singer Annette looked so beatifically composed amid all that noise that you feared
she would be assumed into heaven there and then to sit on the left-hand side
of the Peel Godhead.
A crescendo of sorts is reached with War Against Sleep’s Duncan joining
the Big Joan party to do his best Beefheart impersonation on an ambitious version
of “Electricity” that sounded more like Steve Albini producing Buck’s
Fizz. I guess this is Choke’s answer to a charity supergroup, and, since
all monies raised went to the Asian tsunami appeal, this was fitting enough.
It sure as hell was a fine antidote to all that mawkish Live Aid shit that your
dad made you sit through at Christmas, and proves that the wit, verve, and an
ability to rock the boulevards aren’t completely incompatible with being
a half-decent human being. Now that we no longer have Peel around as the living
embodiment of this truth, this night was a timely reminder.
Carl Dolan
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