Hey, it’s raining again. This fact would normally lead to depression and a night alone with soap operas but the cat with the hat said that Wednesday could instead be a beer drinking night and Tacocat, Breakfast Muff and Youngstrr Joey would make for good company.
On reflection, I don’t really think that Youngstrr Joey would ever be classed as good drinking company but there was a certain, rather elemental, appeal to his songs and, with some co-opted colleagues, he used his musical bow to put an arrow through both misery and manic in the same bipolar set.
Breakfast Muff are a lot smarter than they might appear to the casual listener. They sound like anarchy yet their truth is closer to a knowing nod towards the kind of global indifference that Donald Trump's (alleged) toupee shows when in front of the television cameras. The brevity of their songs and their whole aura of unpreparedness may well have drawn them into the arms of the urban rucksackers but they continue to score more than enough post punk points to be classed as social commentators.
So to the party machine better known as Tacocat and, with no less than a badly dressed Jesus and enough brightly coloured pop trashiness to start a B-52s revival, Tacocat churned out so many short sharp songs on life and Dana Scully that they were likely to cause an outbreak of excessive happiness that would lead, inevitably, to dancing in the street. It’s not often that you encounter a band with the stamp of summer success all over them and you didn’t even need to be a Tacocat believer to see that tonight.
Beer and Tacocat. All it needed was some sunshine and I would have been at the best beach party ever.