So then, on with the cabaret. 95 degrees out here and the last few members of the most important band since The Beatles plus a few muckers they've roped in for the ride are still backstage waiting to barrel on. No doubt doing whatever it is they do these days to help get them through the night - yer know, breathing exercises, group hugs, that kind of schtick - down in the crowd it's forever World Cup Italia.
Since The Beatles? No question. For once Anthony H Wilson's blarney isn't just self-aggrandising bluster. The laddish Nineties that Loaded finally gave voice to actually began the year before, November '89. Gazza might have helped the whole proud-to-be-remedial thing along with his fat-boy shrieking the following Summer but it was The Stone Roses and the Happy Monday's co-sullying of the Beeb within 5 well-monged minutes of each other on the same night's Top of the Pops that was really Year Zero. Madchester, Baggy, indie-danceā¦. call it what you will. Where it was at was suddenly the terraces and the Hac, luvved-up and loving it. Morrissey's brand of arch-asceticism suddenly meant jack-shit.
Whilst the Roses looked like pop pin-ups of the old-school the only thing old school about Ryder and his firm of sink-estate scallies was their scuffed suede trainers. Skuzzed-up and f*cked-up and whacked to the gills, more hoolies out on the rob than 'chart stars' they gave the impression that it hadn't been guitar chords they'd been fingering whilst wagging off.
And now the taxman's got all the old bastards back together again. Before that though the giddy churn of bobbing beerguts and balding heads is soothed by the blue-eyed languor of LSK. That they're not shouted down or bottled off is testament to their own woozy way with a tune and the boozed-up yet good-natured vibe that the Monday's always seem to engender. Gorgeous caramel soul that on another night would have warranted a hell of a lot more attention.
And then. What's it to be boys, steaming hot or steaming shit? Filthy and raw or sloppy seconds? As always it's somewhere in between. Bez lollops from wing to wing in his aviator goggles and TE Lawrence headgear whilst Shaunnie boy tries hard to keep both upright and conscious. As the demented grind of 'Wrote For Luck' cranks up the massed ranks holler like we've just landed a crafty glimpse of God's bollocks. The best thing they ever did, THE BEST song ever to capture in its sweet and sour entirety the whole Madchester ethos. Malevolent yet celebratory at the same time if they'd f*cked off after this then the world might well have been all theirs again.
They stick around though and toss us hit and miss takes on 'Kinky Afro', 'Loose Fit' and 'Step On' (always shit, a no-brain sing-a-long for pseudo-Mancs. Yer twisting my f*cking nerrrrvvvvvves, man.) 'Bob's yer Uncle' is as seedy and glorious, as ever, Shaun and Rowetta trading quips like an X-rated Sid 'n' Babs. The less said about 'Sympathy for the Devil' though the better. Hopelessly dull and obvious lets hope it's not indicative of a talent grown too fat and f*cked to wring any more warped genius out of it. As I said, most important band since The Beatles, but not necessarily the best.
