reverend beat-man: the bonnevilles: the coyote men: les bof!: the bucky rage: eruption: halt bar: glasgow

sweet jeebus.  the gods did smile upon me on saturday.  all the indicators were there.  i fell in love as i always do with the girl behind the bar (a dancing vision in blue).  i drank all day enough to be nicely toasted but not to next day regret excess.  i saw a shitload of loud music.  and it was all for free.  free by christ!  cheers fella.

i am speechless.  lost for words.  here it is briefly:

the bucky rage.  the new slim line rage.  diet rage.  rage-lite.  no sugar, all violence inducing alcosyrup.  lean mean and tight.  like a lumbering prizefighter dropping down a weight.  nimble and fleet of foot.  like a sixteen year old albanian prostitute armed with a knife and pleasant smile and a vicious history.  she’ll pleasure but best watch yr wallet and back.  y’all know i like these fellas.  don’t believe me?  see one of my favourite blog things here…

les bof!  there’s not been much french in my life, musically anyway (i dig/loathe the country in equal measure).  sloy.  cheveu.  jacques dutronc. now these partially gallic charmers.  all dressed to the nines, not a faded t-shirt to be found.  indulging in all my garagey kinksian francais fantasies.  on s’eclate!  one of them was in the thanes i think.  saw them once.  i liked.  this?  this i liked also.

the bonnevilles.  ah the electrified slide geetar wail.  the uberinthereddistortoblooze.  like if the immortal lee county killers came a-drunk and a-hollering from belfast.  not belligerent drunk mind.  just merry. either way it’s fucking beautiful.  like if somehow mississippi john hurt had grown up listening to motorhead.  if i was stuck on a desert island i’d have them as my band bitches, playing old skip james songs at top volume until the madness consumed us all.  part one of the three way tie for greatest live show.  i saw.  on saturday.

the coyote men.  on a bar.  dancing with punters.  on the floor, wandering. sometimes on the stage.  yup, the worlds first bucky rage tribute act.  ho fucking ho.  rather the worlds greatest tag team garage punk combo.  good enough to appear on estrus.  and have jaime hernandez do a cover for them.  i fucking dig love and rockets.  the comic.  not the band.  i fucking dig the coyote men.  the band.  not the comic.  those masked bastards…  part two of the three way tie for greatest live show.  i saw.  on saturday.

and so bringing us to a filthy climax, overspilling (erupting one might say) down white knuckles with religious wrongness and a dirty satorial ejaculate, the reverend beat-man (with the bonnevilles on geetar and drum).  a genuine (well in spirit anyway) spitting snarling hellfire preacher from the wrong side of switzerland.  born of the monsters.  the monsters!  he changes his persona like a tax dodging exile.  now he’s a man of god.  with his geetar and foot operated drum, ranting and raving about the incest and the rape and the atomic bomb and beat-man way.  he supposedy fucked his gerbil.  he did righteously fuck my earholes with his peculiar trash and primitive blues stomp.  he’ll make your back crack, your liver quiver, and your knees freeze. i’m told.  now that lux is gone, i have a new seedy hero.  raise a glass to the rev. ladies and ladyboys.  slainte!

irritatingly didn’t make it along for anything on sunday.  my obsession with seeing but not managing to see the fnords will continue.  unabated.  anybody got a gun and take me there/where/whenever by force.  or if you’re a lady and work behind a bar tell me to go.  i will.  i am powerless in the face of your charms and drink serving prowess…