It's that special time of the year. Cold time. Every year at the same time. Not that a cold stops the Bluesbunny from going out on patrol. Stuffed full of cold remedies (none of which were remotely compatible with alcohol),it's off to the Halt Bar in Glasgow to see The Jam Messengers and the Fnords. The first pint doesn't settle well but there is always the second one. It might be fine. Then there was music.
The Fnords. Yes, the Fnords. Sarah's not wearing any shoes and she had green painted toenails. Is that significant? Then again, she plays guitar like she is Dick Dale's daughter. Oh, this band is loud but they're tight as well. There are punk influences and surf influences on show but The Fnords are more than just noise. This three piece band turned themselves into a sonic weapon and "Starstruck" was a solid punch to the solar plexus.
Then the cold remedies really cut in. They really don't mix with alcohol. No lie GI. Possible hallucinations follow. There's a guy at the bar with a mullet haircut. Yes, it is 2008 but still they survive. Three young women appear wearing masks. Then this petite prom queen starts dancing and taking her clothes off. Miss Vendetta Vain she is called, apparently. Not really sure as I tripped over a stool trying to get a viewing angle where it didn't look as if I was staring and/or drooling. Then I looked around and no less than 60% of the men in the audience weren't even watching. If there is one thing in life more important than beer and football, it is gratuitous female nudity. Draw your own conclusions.
You know how music is so safe nowadays? You could easily take Damien Rice home to meet your mother, for example. Not the case with Rob K and Uncle Butcher aka The Jam Messengers. Rob K - resplendent in a ruffled shirt that would consistently fail the Persil challenge - presented a raw, yet intelligent, musical case on why you should seek out the unknown. He yelped, he did handstands, he rolled on the floor and he told stories between songs that showed he was an entertainer with a conscience. Uncle Butcher did the one man band thing to supply the music and even though he was playing slide guitar, the drums and doing backing vocals, he still managed to watch every one of Miss Vendetta Vain's moves. Now, that's rock 'n' roll. It's unhealthy, it's sleazy but its 5000% better than any angst ridden singer songwriter. No soft drinks on stage either. A round of applause for that too.
Anyway, the Devil decided to take a walk through the streets of Glasgow on a Friday night thinking there would be a fair amount of soul trading to be done. Instead of feeling the heat from the flames of Perdition in every bar and club, he found a world inhabited by neds and badly dressed students all out of their face on second rate pharmaceuticals and brightly coloured alcopops. There's not a soul here that I would rent, let alone buy, he thought.
So he went into the State Bar, looked around and saw a man propping up the bar. As he was furiously scribbling stuff in a notebook, The Devil thought he might have some basic level of intelligence.
"My friend, what's hot in this town tonight?"
The man looked up at the devil and said "I hear the Jam Messengers are playing"
"Thank fuck", said The Devil "I'll get my chequebook"
It's all true apart from the bits that aren't. Hang the rich.