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Jun. 21st, 2004 09:03 amMy weekend by Robin, aged &0x001F.
In the dim shadowy evening of Friday the vehicle of destruction carried it's crazy cargo Southwards to the NodLon of London, yea even as the tri fingered bats of the underpasses gathered to sing harmonies about cheese and carrots we arrived at the temple of Evil squared and ate pizza, talked about stuff and made various in jokes that self reference even before they were spoken.
And there was much rejoicing.
Fear the small snodberries, for they tried to stop us in our next days travels to see the giant chili peppers sing, dance and boodie their funky stuff on the stage of light and (just about) sound. Lo, although the weather played silly buggers it held off the worst of it's wrath for the next day. The three performers stepped up to the podium and prepared to woo and wow us.
The first, chicks on speed, did neither. In fact they were booed and pelted by us; in a collective sense that is. A very sad state of affairs indeed, however in all honesty they stank like a week old dead skunk and I sense that their so called 'crisp sound' that NME had said they had was sat in the studio smoking a fat bag of crack.
But then the man, James Brown, came on stage. The band were fantastic, the vibe was good, the volume was still too quiet. But, aged and creaky though he is, he can put on a show to dazzle a reflective surface even now. He, as I believe the term goes, rocketh.
Finally the peppers of chillyness stepped up; and behold, Flea is a god unto bass - he does things with it that are likely illegal in certain parts of the world so sweet was the sound; the music and jamming meshed like sweet honey and sugar in a tasty sandwich of delight. Still naff volume, but they were great. Many fantastic songs were played including a very promising new one. There were excellent Jam sessions between bass and lead, there were weird synthified trumpet solos that took Flea back to his roots of music, there was drum solos that had the crowd cheering and speckles of wetness in my eyes from the singing and good feeling from a wonderful rendition of Californication.
I must see them again, but next time not in an open air venue.
Burp.
Sunday was shopping and the reason I should never be given credit cards. Skirts and makeup and DVDs and arm plates from cyberdog. Cha-ching. Oh dear.
I'm at work now and looking at the letter 'H' on my keyboard, I think it's looking back at me, I can see little eyeballs forming. It's waving, hmmm, maybe not enough sugar yet this morning...
In the dim shadowy evening of Friday the vehicle of destruction carried it's crazy cargo Southwards to the NodLon of London, yea even as the tri fingered bats of the underpasses gathered to sing harmonies about cheese and carrots we arrived at the temple of Evil squared and ate pizza, talked about stuff and made various in jokes that self reference even before they were spoken.
And there was much rejoicing.
Fear the small snodberries, for they tried to stop us in our next days travels to see the giant chili peppers sing, dance and boodie their funky stuff on the stage of light and (just about) sound. Lo, although the weather played silly buggers it held off the worst of it's wrath for the next day. The three performers stepped up to the podium and prepared to woo and wow us.
The first, chicks on speed, did neither. In fact they were booed and pelted by us; in a collective sense that is. A very sad state of affairs indeed, however in all honesty they stank like a week old dead skunk and I sense that their so called 'crisp sound' that NME had said they had was sat in the studio smoking a fat bag of crack.
But then the man, James Brown, came on stage. The band were fantastic, the vibe was good, the volume was still too quiet. But, aged and creaky though he is, he can put on a show to dazzle a reflective surface even now. He, as I believe the term goes, rocketh.
Finally the peppers of chillyness stepped up; and behold, Flea is a god unto bass - he does things with it that are likely illegal in certain parts of the world so sweet was the sound; the music and jamming meshed like sweet honey and sugar in a tasty sandwich of delight. Still naff volume, but they were great. Many fantastic songs were played including a very promising new one. There were excellent Jam sessions between bass and lead, there were weird synthified trumpet solos that took Flea back to his roots of music, there was drum solos that had the crowd cheering and speckles of wetness in my eyes from the singing and good feeling from a wonderful rendition of Californication.
I must see them again, but next time not in an open air venue.
Burp.
Sunday was shopping and the reason I should never be given credit cards. Skirts and makeup and DVDs and arm plates from cyberdog. Cha-ching. Oh dear.
I'm at work now and looking at the letter 'H' on my keyboard, I think it's looking back at me, I can see little eyeballs forming. It's waving, hmmm, maybe not enough sugar yet this morning...
