Blur – with Dandy Warhols at the Orpheum – Review


with Dandy Warhols at the Orpheum
author unknown
translated by Nik Rainey

13 September 1997: The tosser that worked the door at the theater looked at me all suspicious-like and told me to bugger off to the end of the queue, even though I told him I was a respected journalist an’ all. “Look then, I normally wouldn’t mind goin’ in with the plebes an’ all, but I’m on special overseas assignment-like. Yeh, I’m a writer for, ah, the New Melody Sound Maker, right. But I’m, like, oh, what’s the word, pre-lancing for, um, P magazine. Yeh, you know, world tour-like an’ all. I’m following the Blur all over the fucking states, all forty of ’em, right.”

The Yank bastard weren’t convinced so I had to go against my principles an’ that and say summat I’d never say if me Gram’s knickers were on fire. “I think…” and ‘ere me jaw was clenched so tight-like you couldn’t pry it open if Patsy Kensit ‘anded you the fucking crowbar, “…I think they’re the best band in the world.” The cunt just smiled and pointed his fucking finger at the queue and sent me off. I shoulda smashed him in the face and gotten ‘is student blood all down his fucking poof shirt. OK Computer, bollocks. I’ll knock a fuckin’ radio in yer head, mate. But I ‘ad an important task an’ all so I pissed off. All true revolutionaries has gotta put up wi’ shite to uphold the greater purpose an’ all. Would fucking Trotsky be standing about mithering like this? Would Man City if they was down a goal to Newcastle United? No, they’d wait for the right moment-like and then knock their skulls all the way to Whalley Range is what they’d do, right.

‘Course I’m sure that they wouldn’ ‘ave ‘ad to stand behind some geezers talkin’ that electronica shite. Fuckin’ Dustbin Brothers, Chemist Brothers, all that rubbish you like when you do E’s instead of proper pints an’ all. So I grabbed one of the bastards an’ snarled, “Shut yer fuckin’ hole ’bout that crap! They’re not even real fuckin’ brothers, right, not like…” But I had to stifle meself ‘fore I gave away me real reason fer bein’ there an’ that. Besides, that “Settin’ Sun” is a bit of all right, and it ain’t got nunnat t’ do wi’ the tossers twistin’ the knobs, right? I’d twist their knobs right fuckin’ off and plant ’em in the M5 what’s runnin’ through that Prodigy geezer’s nut, I would. I’m a proper fuckin’ firestarter an’ I got the scars to prove it, son.

All right, so I finally get to my fuckin’ seat while some skinny bleeders call themselves the Dandy Warhols is playing. Wasn’t that the blighter what useta sell tins of soup for a thousand pounds an’ that? That was fuckin’ brilliant, even if he was a ponce. D’ya think if I painted me fuckin’ hair ginger an’ minced about in black keks I could sell me old tins of expired beans for a tenner if I called it art an’ all? Anyroad, these fuckers were playin’ some of that Velvet Underpants kinda shite or summat, an’ what wi’ all th’ pills an’ Guinness an’ wiper fluid I ‘ad to prepare me for this momentous occasion – that means a big fuckin’ deal, right? I hadt’ learn some o’ that journalist crap to get me free tickets – I puked all over some posh twat’s anorak. That shite don’t mix well wi’ drone-pop, y’know what I mean? That’s another o’ those terms I learnt. Just them two is all, or there wouldn’t be enough room in me brain to remember who won the FA cup the last thirty years. “Remember the important things,” me dad told me on his deathbed just before he broke me nose.

Them Dandy fuckers cleared off and the Blur came on. Just the sight of them Southerners filled me all fulla twist, especially that Damon twat, running all about the fuckin’ stage an’ not standing still with his hands behind his back like he should do, like proper performers do an’all. Listen to that shite – “girls who need boys who need…” a good fuckin’ bash in the fuckin’ gob with a Wellington boot, “parklife, parklife…” I’ll meet you in the fuckin’ park wi’ a knife and slice up yer chest and that bird from Plastica you’ve been heftin’ if she’s wi’ you, mate! I’m fuckin’ frothin’ in me seat-like, but I hafta choose me moment, that’s what me mam told me on ‘er dying day just before she kneed me in the bollocks. So I waited, all calm-like, though I ‘ad to let some of me excess aggression out, especially when the cunt sang that “Beatle-bum” song – don’t think I don’t know who yer on about, cock! – so I nutted some git next to me who wouldn’t stop talkin’ rubbish about how the Blur sounded like Pavement or Tarmac or some Yank student band named after road materials.

After over an hour of this wank, I saw me moment at last. They got t’ that fuckin’ “Woo-hoo!” song, the one they couldn’ even come up wi’ a proper title for. I felt the power surge through me veins-like. I pasted on me prosthetic eyebrow an’ I got out th’ bottle what I ‘ad secreted beneath me mac, full up of petrol topped off wi’ a rag, me Molotov Champagne Supernova Cocktail. Everyone ‘ad their fuckin’ lighters up an’ all, so it was dead easy to light up the rag wi’out bein’ noticed. This was for Noel and Liam and those other two blokes whose names I can never remember-like. I stood up, yelled me United Oasis Front battle cry – “Vive le Wonderwall!” – and sent the fucker flyin’ through the air to put an end to these doss fuckers forever-like.

But all them fights I started musta done summat to me throwin’ arm, cos I missed the stage an’ took out a whole section of students what musta won their tix by callin’ up some dodgy radio station and guessin’ ‘ow many liters of spunk the fuckin’ DJ ‘as in his stomach from blowin’ these tossers. Serves the bastards right. I ‘ad failed in me mission, but I ain’t sad-like. The Blur will get theirs. Now I think I’ll return ‘ome, find that Morrissey cunt, and make ‘im cry again. That always puts me spirits right.