It started off gentle. I meandered into town, bought a Guardian (there's a G2 Entirely Unofficial Royal Wedding Special, illustrated by my faves Modern Toss, with pieces by Charlie Brooker and John Crace - er, how do? I'm thinking they'll be talking my language), and had a wander into a fave drinking hole (The Angel at St. Giles' Circus). Caught up with the heavy fraternity for a pint.
Blondie arrived, looking foxy as ever, followed swiftly by Nads. And so, off to the Borderline. Had a minor skirmish with Ticketweb today - ordering tickets to a gig 9 days in advance seems not long enough for Ticketweb/Royal Mail to deliver. I've been told by some smart Alec that Royal Mail is far too cheap (this came in the same week he posted me a firewire cable which didn't arrive due to insufficient postage payment attached - touché, my friend), but I'm just blaming a general crapness in this instance. But all's well that ends well, etc...
I digress. We arrived just in time to see Mr. Bill Steer's Firebird take the stage. And very good too. Firebird are a bunch of metal/70s blues hybrids with added funk. I love it when Bill plays his harp (I mean blues mouth-harp, not some bloody Joanna Newsome nonsense), and when he shreds his guitar, there's an element of Mr Rory Gallagher, which is always a winner in my 70's book (it's no secret - I have a soft spot for Mr Steer - but I often wonder if he ever brushes his hair).
There's some fat chewing at the back to follow. At one point, the members of Sweden's finest four appear. I vaguely remember saying things along the lines of, "Oh. God. Really?", followed, by "Really. God." and someone else saying, "Gosh." and then another "Wow.". Let's face it - Graveyard render Ladies a tad speechless. It's like every hairy-heavy-handsome-lean-mean-skinny bicep-tight flared jean-70s-esque dream machine come true. And my Lord, they're lean - these boys don't eat chips. Or anything at all, probably.
Heavy, but not due to overeating
As ever, they don't disappoint soundwise. They have it down to a tee and they're tight (a tight tee - with bulging biceps - and tattoos - oh god, I'm off again...). The whole place loves it - top heavy played through Hudd's finest (can't help but be pleased that many of my fave bands play through Orange amps). They are LOUD as ever.
When it's over (too soon), there's a lot more chit-chat - I have an excellent 70s cheesecloth conversation with top fella Lee Rise Above (he's just back from a stint in Japan with Cathedral - I'm pleased he went - so many bands have understandably cancelled in the wake of the terrible natural disasters there, but I think the old nihilist in him would never have ducked out). And then the Crobar is mentioned, and I can feel the heavy hangover already.
(Postscript - having been rendered semi-deaf by their last appearance in the UK (Luminaire May 09), I can safely say that the need for earplugs at a Graveyard gig is a must. Forgot earplugs this time again. Now fucked - aurally, at least.)
