home reviews

Monkey Boy / Rothko - London, Dingwalls Tuesday 27th October 1998 I hate London. I hate London people, I hate London pubs, I hate London bands and I hate London crowds. Most of all, I hate people who ASPIRE to be Londoners. I don't really know what relevance this has, but the gig is in London, and I would like to make it clear I am NOT a Londoner. And what is worse is that it's in Camden. Camden, the centre of London-ness, the epitome of all that is wrong with London. The smug, hipper-than-thou cliques. And if ANY of you want to fucking pretend that you know more about music than I do, I will offer you outside for a musical debate... just one of you, come on. THEN we'll see. You and your My Life Story loving toss-pot friends. And I hate the way they walk. Just watch them. GO ON, WATCH. Watch those oh-so-subtly flared trousers sway, come on, with your pink fluffy backpacks and teen-c wannabe flowery hairgrips. You fucking grinning inane blank idiots. I HATE YOU ALL. Thank you for listening. Would you like to know about the gig now? Another thing I hate about London is the woman taking the money at the door for this gig. She is a fool. I distinctly told her I was there for everyone except Substance. But oh, no, she goes and writes own a little 'one' next to Substance. This is a mistake I shall forever harbour a grudge about. They are one of the worst bands I have ever set eyes upon. We've all heard the myth of bands suffering for their art, yes? Well, I've fucking had to suffer for Rothko and I hope they're grateful. Made up of three bassplayers and nowt else. It's an infra-structure that is so delicate that the tiniest, slightest stray into wank-rock would dissolve them. However, Rothko manage to maintain the balance of Labradford-esque meanderings and angular half-tunes, trains of thought, leading you around to no particular purpose, but who NEEDS one? Oasis have a purpose to their songs, does that make them good? No. Question answered, debate resolved, Rothko ROCK. Erm, in a spacey way. Monkey Boy Monkey Boy Monkey Boy Monkey Boy Monkey Boy Monkey Boy Monkey Boy. They are monkeys, they are boys. Boy Monkeys. They bounce. They holler. They have a singing drummer. They have two bass players. They are clearly INSANE. They are.... (wait for it).... (wait for it).... (go on, guess).... MONKEY BOY! I have never seen anything quite so strange. It can't be the line up. It can't be the people. It's just... a guttural shrieking angular mass of noise coming straight at you and then stopping. And then starting again. And then stopping. CRASH! go the drums. Applause. No, they haven't finished... CRASH! An uncertain smattering of applause. CRASH! Silence... silence... silence... And the crowd goes WILD! And over and over again, like an inexplicable punk rock nightmare that you just can't throw off, a relentless battering about the head into sheer oblivion and it's FUCKING AMAZING! If Monkey Boy don't become stars within the next SECOND I will SCREAM. In fact, no, fuck that, Monkey Boy are already stars and I'm going to scream anyway. It's a gurning jumping fucking sexy racket and I love it. Oh, they've finished. Damn. Well, I guess so have I. But guys, next time, will you please not play London? I hate London... (I am Steven Wells and I claim my £10 [oi, watch it... - Pete] ) Emily

next