by JayKay » Mon Nov 05, 2007 1:33 pm
Not strictly a Glasgow act, but one for the hall of Fame anyway.
Adapted badly from a tale told by Henry Rollins at a spoken word performance at the Riverside Club many moons ago.
In 1984, US punk legends Black Flag were touring the UK. Things were not going well. By this point in history, 'punk' was a term normally used only as part of a sentence that ended 'is not dead' and was only celebrated by rather sad people who had either missed the late '70s or hankered nostalgically for them. The scene had moved on a punk was not where it was at anymore.
So Black Flag rolled into Glasgow, to play Night Moves at the bottom of Sauchihall St (now Moon night club). Anyone who was ever at a gog there will remember that it was from the balcony possible to be exactly above the stage, either behind of beside the band.
The band kick off with an instrumental. Familiarity with anything off the process of weeding out will give you the picture. Not exactly a mellow vibe. The audience are not exactly pretty either, many actively hostile to this bunch of americans who are probably sell-outs, fakes, softies or whatever.
Instrumental over, Rollins takes the stage for his first number. Grabs the mike, wraps cable round his wrist and opens his mouth.
At that very instant he is hit, square on, with a full pint of pish.
He looks around incredulously at the audience, as he begins the number.
And is hit again, full on, head to toe, with another full pint of pish.
The gig continues, Rollins doing his thing, Gregg Ginn no doubt grinding it out in a way only one of the greatest guitarists ever could do, but things don't get better for our Henry or his friends.
The audience, caught in a punk nostalgia timewarp think they're perhaps at the 100 Club in '77, and gob all over the band. One member of the audience, with a particular good aim, seems to be suffering from some ungodly mouth absess and keeps hitting our Henry square on with immense volleys of pus and blood.
Undeterred, our heroes continue. According to one of my mates who was there, it was the best gig he has ever been at in his life, and he has been at a few since.
End of the show, our Henry is soaked in pish, spit and blood. As area all the abnd members. Off he goes backstage. And there is, in the backstage area, like a desert oasis, a shower.
Under he goes, on goes the shower. No water.
So there the band are, thousands of miles from home, playing to an audience whose reaction has been to soak them in bodily fluids for their entire set. They're down. They're tired and they're stinking.
The stage door opens. In wafts a group of immaculately coiffed figures. in long duster coats, baggy trousers and ballet slippers. "Hi", one of them says. "Thought we'd check you out, we were playing at the Apollo this evening, we're Ultravox..."