WTF93 93/93 – The Beast Must DIE! Legacy Edition
WTF020 -“Fuck that shit! Fuck shit up!”
Acoustic gigs were always odd. This one more so than the rest.
We were as tight as we ever got, which was lucky as Way brought a bottle of vodka as a prop. I'd taken to carrying around a battered old briefcase that used to belong to my Dad. Most of the time it just contained a notebook, pens, comics, copies of the Fortean Times , a diary and whatever else I was reading at the time, but for this one night only we stashed the booze in it, like a timebomb.
Stools were set out before the soundcheck, so this was going to be a sit down gig. Smashing. The soundchap placed some kind of box thing under my stool, right where my feet were going to be if I, for example, stood up or something. It looked like an important piece of kit, what with all the connections going into t, so I suggested tat t might be a better idea to put it somewhere else. Y'know, just in case.
“Nah. It's fucking fine there.”
Well, what if it gets trodden on by accident?
“It fucking won't.”
I often get quite into it when we're performing, I wouldn't want to damage this thing by accident.
“Fucking stay on the fucking stool then.”
In the end it was fine. But more by luck than judgement, it has to be said. In fairness, he was obviously just doing his job and I was being an unprofessional arse. I've always had a tendency to damage microphones, but never on purpose. Collateral damage – that's what it is.
At one gig we did in Oxford's Elm Tree , the soundman got so annoyed wtih my playful antics that he took my mic stand away (“You're disrespecting my equipment, chap who's come over from Cardiff to perform, for fuck-all, in front of a man and his parrot, and you don't deserve to have it.”) and gave me one of those teeeeeeeny ones used for miking up guitar amps and kick drums. When I started singing about sucking a dwarf's cock (well, it wasn't doing my posture any good) he took that one off me as well. I gave up on the microphone as well at this point and just did the rest of the gig without, walking through the venue and bellowing. Oddly enough, this went down a storm. Tch. Kids, eh?
Anyway, back at the acoustic gig. Sklav set up a tape recorder at the back. One or two people clapped (it was pretty full to be fair) and I started downing the vodka.
I started drinking on stage at the very first gig I ever did, draining a bottle of wine and honking like I needed cookies. Vodka was just a natural end-stage; live performance is a gateway drug after all.
When we were interviewed for the much-missed local fanzine Stinks of Shoe Polish , the journo (who was there on the night) told me that he was convinced it was water, right up until I Hulked out. At least one other person had nightmares as a result of this gig, but that's the way these things go.
And if you listen really carefully you can hear Petrified Records talking inbetween tracks.