Week 4

Week 4 - Thursday 27^th January – Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff – Walter Schreifels - £7.50

“Who’s the big man eh?! Who’s the big man?!!”

This was the big question asked of us as we walked along Castle Street in Cardiff city centre, approaching the chosen venue for the fourth week of Gigaweek. For once it was not Sandro who uttered these words, but a slightly drunk, five foot five inch Scotsman.

I know, I know, 'Is there any other kind?' you’re wondering racistly.

Our final gig of January (or the first of twelve triumphant finales, as I like to think of it) saw me and the indefatigable yet clearly fatigued Sandro, joined by our friends P.Mushy and P. Maddy at Clwb Ifor Bach (or Welsh Club as it's known to English people. And most Welsh people), where we witnessed the talents of none other than Walter Schreifels.

It turned out that the Scotsman was just trying to find out which of us was big enough to lend him a few pennies to buy some much needed alcohol. Despite the physically imposing Sandro’s late arrival prompting the Scotsman to answer his own question, P. Mushy was big enough, and he duly wrote a cheque for one hundred pence to the good man, who set off to live up to some undeserved, ridiculously inaccurate stereotype. That is, after head-butting P.Mushy, and flashing us from underneath his kilt of course.

I must confess that I was blissfully unaware of Walter’s musical talent and history until these tickets were bought, but the booking did prompt me to buy his debut solo album released last year, entitled An Open Letter to the Scene. I recommend it. Unless a recommendation from me puts you off.

It was a Thursday in January, so naturally Sandro and P.Mushy had been at the pub since 3:30, while I was not so silently suffering at the work place. P. Maddy had joined them a little later on, so once home I booked a taxi and arranged for it to collect all three of them en route to town. That was my first mistake.

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The driver of the six-seater taxi that picked me up looked a little surprised that I was alone, and even more surprised that I chose to sit alongside him in the passenger seat. That was my second mistake. I explained my cunning plan, and we headed for The North Star. It had been an especially cold day, which seemed the obvious topic to discuss to break the dreaded taxi silence. 

“Yes!” the bushy bearded driver agreed enthusiastically when I made this point. “Very bad for mechanics,” I nodded tentatively as he stared at me enthusiastically. “They need their fingers!” he qualified grinning madly. 

Ahh, cold fingers: the bane of a mechanics life. As we flew over the Gabalfa flyover, the driver’s phone rang. Before answering he looked over at me, “You’re not a cop are you?”

Do I look like a cop? I wondered, for some reason slightly pleased. I answered no, but when he put his phone to his ear and veered slightly toward the flyover barrier I wished I’d said, 'No, but I’d still rather not end the night as the human equivalent of mashed potato, in a burning wreck after plummeting 100ft. Even I probably won’t tip you if that happens pal.'

Once we’d picked Sandro and the two peas up, the driver asked if we would be drinking that evening.

“Yes. . .” I replied hesitantly.

“Will you be up late?” he asked suspiciously.

Oh dear, I’m going to be abducted, I thought.

“Maybe. . .” I said uneasily.

“You’re not Doctors are you?”

Phew, he was just concerned about the patients.

Now even more impressed by my own appearance, I glanced at my three scruffily dressed companions. Sandro was naked.


“No,” I confirmed. What did we look like? More importantly, what did I look like? Some kind of Super Cop Doctor, clearly. Dr Super Cop: perhaps that can be my new nickname. Once I’ve shaken off Gimp Boy, maybe I’ll suggest it to my friends. That was my third mistake. I won't say what they call me now.

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It was still early so after we’d brushed off the Scotsman we headed to the nearby Gatekeeper. Still smarting from recent negative drinking analysis, I was happy that our round consisted of double Morgan’s spiced rum and cokes, including compulsory straw assistance. With straw in hand I was unstoppable. It wasn’t a race, but I definitely won.

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right, Gigaweek is not just about taxi drivers and poor drinking practice (though they are both crucial aspects), there’s meant to be some live music too. After a couple of rounds at the Gatekeeper, we crossed the street to Clwb and were inside before 8 o’clock. It was almost deserted then, but filled up impressively later on, which was the complete reverse of the unfortunate scenes at the last gig I’d been to at Clwb, Tony Da Gattora vs Gruff Rhys.

What put people off that night’s gig is beyond me (apparently it was the music), especially seeing as though it included the ingenious lyrics: “In a room full of turtles you stood on a toad, You saw your reflection in the slime on its back, In a house with no mirrors, You never get old.” Best lyrics of 2010? I think so. P.Mushy thinks so. Sandro and P. Maddy didn’t seem to agree.

The live music did begin soon afterward. A gentleman by the name of Jon Greenwood (not Jonny) was the figurehead of the opening act. He was a local musician who P. Mushy identified as formerly being in now defunct local band The Slowdance. He took to the stage alone armed only with a mic and guitar, and belted out his first song, utilising a husky voice Sandro can only dream of (and frequently does). 

After a song or two Jon was joined by his friends, one-named artists in the vein of Prince and Madonna, called Dave and Leanne. Together they morphed in Power Rangers fashion to form The Doublecross, who have a new album out now, which is worth checking out, particularly for the song ‘The Small Escape.’ 

We then spent a brief interval in Clwb’s outdoor smoking area, and apparently missed the stylings of German musical maestro Felix Gebhard, which left only Walter Schreifels himself, ably assisted by a band comprised of fellow New Yorkers.

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Through the wisdom of Sandro and my unparalleled ability to google, I knew Walter Schreifels had been part of far too many bands to mention, in what Sandro probably didn’t describe as the New York Hardcore scene of the late 1980’s. As you’d expect I was confused and concerned. Weren’t You Me At Six earlier described as Post-Hardcore? Was I to expect similarities? Sandro flung names such as Gorilla Biscuits, Youth of Today and Rival Schools. 

These were names which flew into my ears and collided with the soft mush inside, but brought no recollections. “Gorillas don’t eat biscuits,” I drooled smartly.

Perhaps my lack of depth in musical knowledge was being shown up, but I didn’t associate the word Hardcore with the kind of melodic songs my tame ears usually enjoy, and therefore I hadn’t been terribly optimistic. Fortunately my lack of knowledge of the genre, or of the many bands of Walter Schreifels, didn’t affect my enjoyment of his performance, particularly in light of the fact that a fair chunk of the music played was taken from his own solo album.

These included very tuneful songs I’d heard on many occasions (okay, once) such as ‘Arthur Lee’s Lullaby,’ ‘She is To Me’ and ‘Save the Saveables.’ There were also memorable renditions of ‘Society Sucker’ and the downbeat title-track of the new album, that would encourage me to listen a great deal more to Walt subsequently.

He was an engaging and funny front man too which helped, at one point riffing with the audience by asking them to name one of the many bands he’d been part of. P. Mushy called out, “Walter Schreifels!” which was particularly well received by all except me, as I wished I'd said it. He joked with his band who seemed to also be enjoying themselves, and they engaged with the audience more, discussing the subject of the Welsh language and previous visits to Cardiff. 


He gave the impression of a steadily successful musician who’d been in the game for over a couple of decades but still enjoyed performing in smallish venues, and that enjoyment filtered through to the audience.

Afterward, as Walter and his band transferred their kit from the stage to their transport P. Mushy managed to catch up with him for a quick handshake, and he stopped for a brief chat. The look on his face told me he regretted it instantly when P. Mushy said sinisterly, “Are you still living in Berlin?” P. Mushy later explained to me that such knowledge was coincidental, but P. Maddy assured me otherwise.

Walt happily stayed for a couple of minutes to talk about the upcoming Rival Schools tour (surprisingly P. Mushy had a ticket for one of the gigs), and mentioned that it was a shame that Cardiff’s Barfly, where P. Mushy had previously seen him play, had closed down. 


“I’m not a stalker,” he would later promise me. “Just an obsessed fan, who doesn’t believe in the validity of restraining orders.” I’m sure Walter was much more impressed by my input, “Great show Walt,” I said cleverly, as we shook hands. He managed to escape soon after, so we headed for the pub.

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Having my drinking technique or speed scrutinised wasn’t originally intended to become a recurring theme of Gigaweek, but it’s one final pint at O’Neill’s saw further condemnation, with P. Mushy joining my ever increasing list of detractors.

“You didn’t say anything when I was whipping your asses with the straw earlier did you? Did you!? DID YOU!!??” I demanded hysterically. 


I lowered my voice fearing misinterpretation, and looked around. A former football team-mate of mine, the esteemed Mr Veale, was peering over from a nearby table with a mixture of amusement and alarm. 
“Aah, that’s why they call him Gimp Boy. . .” I heard him mutter. 

Fortunately, the words of Walter Schreifels meant my mental strength was undiminished. ‘You don’t gotta prove it to anyone. Fuck ‘em. They’re all wrong,’ he sang. ‘Yes, yes they are,’ I thought as I spilled half of my lager under our table, so that I could keep up with the others.

On leaving O’Neill’s Sandro and P.Mushy continued into the night, joining up with their new Scottish friend after borrowing back a pound coin, leaving me and P. Maddy to fend for ourselves. We ignored the evil clutches of Burger King, until we got to the door and embraced the evil clutches by greedily stuffing our faces, before disappearing rapidly into the night, like rum and coke from one of my glasses.

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January

 

1-7 - You Me At Six - ✓

8-14 –Fjords - ✓
15-21 - The Walkmen - ✓
22-28 - Walter Schreifels - ✓