You know what the FUCKING WORST thing in the world is? Playing a gig, packing up at 2 am and then driving back the length of the country.
The sucker punch, Song For a Dead Pilot, is a feral and often primal bash which sounds like Roxy Music's Do The Strand thrown into a tumble drier.
You were always busy building things or making things, out of sound, making beer for your hobby, or fixing that bloody mixing desk!
No longer difficult, or cussed, or looking to smash down walls, Space Siren have decided to dwell in a time of their own. And it really suits them.
What really sucks you in is the bass line which, by contrast to all the guitar shards being chucked at you by Gwen and Corno, is as smooth as velvet. Madness.
I’m strolling down to the Melkweg. I see a huge queue of teens clad in black and the darker shades of purple and grey… hordes of gawky teens; liberally daubed with purple lipstick and violently, aggressively shiny black hair, wearing trousers that are wider than a turnoffon the A4. Eh? Where are the Subbacultcha butterflies?
Moshing at Space Siren? A month ago that would have been unthinkable. Now it’s as if that confidence in celebrating something good hit the audience foursquare.
Wymer from Vox Von Braun (also happily present in the room), whispers to me that “Frank’s got his guitar”. This is akin to Mercury passing on the orders of Zeus, and we are duly excited.
There’s also quite a lineup of bands in the audience too, a veritable roll call of Subroutine bands and ULTRA-Nieuwe acts. An indication of the growing power and popularity of this label? Or just a collection of like-minded souls who suddenly realize that yes, they all know each other & are happy in each others’ company?
I don’t wanna be a member of a club that wants me as a member. I never had the feeling that I wanna be part of something. I wanna be part of my band and I love my band members and that’s a scene on its own.
...this record creates an imaginary world of its own, conjuring up spells at will, hell-bent on a strange kind of enchantment. There are some great songs on here.
This time around, blessed with an armoury of Gothicke, metallic pop and blessed with a real shit-kicker attitude – that swagger that only provincials have when they feel confident – the band delivered in spades.
Then it is home on the last regular train after the usual conversations: “see at the next gig?”, “you bet”… what is a 40 something bloke doing, getting all excited about this young stuff?
singer Gwendolyn gives off a scarily assured air, akin to a Victorian governess scolding her charges.