Week 13 – Thursday 31st March – The Fleece, Bristol – The Thermals - £10
“It couldn’t get any fucking worse!”
Being an appalling planner, it wasn’t until a few days before our scheduled gig for Week 13 (The King Blues in Bristol on Tuesday 29th - Sandro’s Supplement) that I realised I wouldn’t be able to make it, due to a crucial matter of life and death, also known as a football match.
However, I was determined not to be defeated and desperate to avoid suffering taunts from Sandro for the rest of my life. It would have been less concerning if I hadn’t been in danger of breaking one of the few important written rules of Gigaweek; to attend at least one gig outside our home city per month.
Fortunately, a close personal associate of mine works in Bristol, and he agreed to come to the rescue, by joining me for a gig in that fine city for the third month in a row.
Unfortunately, that close personal associate was Cousin Bish.
Unfortunately, that close personal associate was Cousin Bish.
We had options. Hip hop on Wednesday on The Thekla in the form of CunninLynguists was tempting, particularly as Cousin Bish is such a huge hip hop fan (his all time top 3 artists being: MC Hammer, Snoop Dogg and Right Said Fred).
The less cleverly named rockers Band of Skulls were also an option that night, and they were playing at The Fleece, which was the main appeal for me as it’s a venue I’d never visited.
The less cleverly named rockers Band of Skulls were also an option that night, and they were playing at The Fleece, which was the main appeal for me as it’s a venue I’d never visited.
On Thursday night, the electronic duo Younger Brother were aboard The Thekla. With both Cousin Bish and I being younger brothers (he’s my younger brother and I’m his younger brother), we decided that one was probably worth avoiding.
In the end we plumped for Portland, Oregon’s The Thermals, at The Fleece on Thursday. They were guaranteed to be the greatest indie/alternative/post-pop-punk rock band either of us had ever seen.
In the end we plumped for Portland, Oregon’s The Thermals, at The Fleece on Thursday. They were guaranteed to be the greatest indie/alternative/post-pop-punk rock band either of us had ever seen.
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I finished work at five and headed straight to the bus stop, hoping to catch the 5:30 train from Cardiff Central. A bus was due at 5:15, but astonishingly, the bus was tardy and turned up at 5:21. I therefore arrived at the station at precisely 5:33 (and 17 seconds) which meant I’d have to wait for the next train. I was understandably furious and decided that I'd write a strongly worded letter to Cardiff Bus. I didn't.
Cousin Bish had finished work and would be waiting with a paper and pint in a pub by now. Thankfully trains are much more reliable than buses, and I boarded the six o’clock train on time. It was £10.60 for a single or £10.70 for a day return so naturally I bought two singles.
Cousin Bish had finished work and would be waiting with a paper and pint in a pub by now. Thankfully trains are much more reliable than buses, and I boarded the six o’clock train on time. It was £10.60 for a single or £10.70 for a day return so naturally I bought two singles.
At around 6:35 the train came to an abrupt halt just outside the Severn Tunnel.
I paused 'Deeply Dippy' on my iPod and listened out for an explanation. For a while there was none forthcoming and panic set in (not from me of course, I’m not known as ‘Iceman’ for nothing).
I paused 'Deeply Dippy' on my iPod and listened out for an explanation. For a while there was none forthcoming and panic set in (not from me of course, I’m not known as ‘Iceman’ for nothing).
“Oh dear Lord Jesus, this ain’t happening, man. . . This can’t be happening, man!” said the guy sat next to me, who looked suspiciously like Cardiff City Centre-Back Mark Hudson.
I personally thought this was a bit of an overreaction.
“Err, are you ok mate?” I asked him tentatively.
“They’re all around us, man. Jesus!” he said sweating heavily.
“Who? I can’t see anyone,” I replied looking out of the window.
“Look, I’m telling ya, there’s somethin’ movin’ and it ain’t us!” he responded, looking at me wild eyed.
“Well, I’ve noticed that but it’s not really worth panicking about is it? Here, have a listen to 'Deeply Dippy'. It’ll calm you down.”
After around ten to fifteen minutes the driver spoke over the PA, and informed us that we could now proceed through the tunnel, but only at ten miles per hour, to allow himself and the conductor to check the other side of the track at the same time for ‘metal objects’.
The train proceeded into the dark tunnel, before a strange groan and a loud creaking sound that were too much for the man next to me to bear.
“They’re coming outta the walls. They’re coming outta the goddamn walls!” he squealed.
“Jesus H. Christ pal, get a grip!” I comforted him sympathetically.
“That’s it man, game over man, game over! What the fuck are we gonna do now? What are we gonna do?” he cried grabbing at my arm.
“Why don’t you just go nuts and run around like a deluded nutball?” I suggested helpfully and he did, disappearing into the next carriage shouting pleasantly, “We’re all gonna die man!”
The train finally escaped the four mile tunnel after what seemed like an age, but was actually less than half an hour, and we stopped again to allow the driver to speak to the signaller. Apparently, no metal objects were found but a hysterical mad man was seen sprinting down the tunnel screaming wildly.
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Cousin Bish had left the pub and had been waiting at Bristol Temple Meads station for over an hour by the time I arrived, at about quarter to 8. Trains to Cardiff had been cancelled for the time being which was ominous for our return journey.
We hungrily headed to Subway for our dinner. As we walked toward The Fleece carrying our foot-long meatball feasts, a likeable seagull unleashed a carefully aimed bomb of excrement at Cousin Bish, missing his meatballs by just a few inches, but leaving a lovely mark on his coat. I didn't tell him but I thought it was an improvement.
Inside The Fleece, a band from Cardiff called Among Brothers were playing, so fittingly we picked up some Strawberry Brothers Cider. We stood by one of many thin black cylindrical pillars that double as drink tables. This particular pole was right next to the desk where merchandise was (not) being sold from, and I had to double-take as I noticed the image of Myra Hindley's face on supporting band The Coathangers’ T-shirts and badges.
The Coathangers announced themselves on stage as hailing from Atlanta, Georgia. Praise must be given to the four girls in the band for making a lot of noise, but that was about it. They switched singing duties and instruments regularly throughout, and went on a lot longer than expected (or desired). They did show an impressive amount of energy, but so did Big Jeff in the front row and to be honest he was the superior spectacle.
When they finally finished one of them joked “Don’t worry, it will get better!” to which a man with a strong Cardiff accent called out in reply “It couldn’t get any fucking worse!”
They weren't my words, but I couldn't have put it any better than Cousin Bish. Before any accusations of sexism, let it be known that I’m very fond of women in general. My mum is one, I have over four female friends, and Ellen Ripley is a role-model of mine. Similarly, Cousin Bish grew up in a house full of women and no man is more feminine than he.
They weren't my words, but I couldn't have put it any better than Cousin Bish. Before any accusations of sexism, let it be known that I’m very fond of women in general. My mum is one, I have over four female friends, and Ellen Ripley is a role-model of mine. Similarly, Cousin Bish grew up in a house full of women and no man is more feminine than he.
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“They’re an improvement on the last band already,” Cousin Bish said after The Thermals’ first song. The trio opened strongly, before playing the first two songs they’d ever written, according to their front-man, who wore a grey V-neck T-shirt that became as sweat drenched as a pair of Sandro’s boxers in no time at all.
Like The Coathangers they made a heck of a racket, but crucially they also had some great tunes. Neither of us were familiar with their work beforehand, but they've made five albums and have been affectionately compared to the Pixies (by someone, somewhere).
My pre-gig research told me to look forward to the song 'Now We Can See', which contains a catchy “Oh-way-oh-a-whoa” refrain, the toe-tapper 'Never Listen to Me' and the head-bobber 'I Don’t Believe You' as well as the hip-shaker 'A Pillar of Salt'. Sadly there were no chin-strokers. Due to an enforced early departure we missed the pick of their songs, 'Returning to the Fold', although its live performance may not have matched its video.
We had to disappear at 10:40 to catch the 10:55 train (I wasn’t prepared to risk a fiasco of Week 5 proportions).
It was a crime to suffer the full set from The Coathangers (which, like my train journey, probably didn’t last as long as it felt like it did), and to then have to cut the gig short, because the half hour or so we did see and hear from The Thermals was enjoyable. Thankfully the train home was on time, and the journey back to Cardiff was smooth.
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Back in Cardiff, we passed a half dozen or so taxi drivers who stood chatting on the corner of Kingsway, their cars parked in an orderly row. We asked a glum looking driver who was sat in his car if he’d take us to our respective homes, but he pointed us to the unmanned cab at the front of the row.
“There’s no driver in that one,” Cousin Bish said.
The silent driver pointed to the group of taxi drivers stood chatting or smoking.
“Why can’t you take us?” Cousin Bish asked.
“Queue,” the taxi driver grunted in reply.
“Queue?” Cousin Bish replied.
“Queue,” the driver repeated.
We looked over at the seemingly uninterested group of men.
“What, is it against the taxi driver code to pick up a fare if another driver’s car is parked in front of you or something?” Cousin Bish asked.
The taxi driver stared unblinkingly for a few seconds before replying.
“Queue,” he said.
“Oh, forget it then,” Cousin Bish said and we made to walk away from the taxis altogether.
“Ok, ok, I’ll take you!” the taxi driver called out after us.
“What?” I replied,
“I’ll take you, get in,” he called.
“You had your chance!” Cousin Bish called back and we walked home triumphantly instead.
We’d stuck to our principles, and scoffed at the taxi driver’s desperate attempts to call us back. More importantly, we’d put one over taxi drivers in general. I don’t know how, and I’m not even sure which particular principles we’d stuck to exactly. Plus it did add over half an hour to our journey home.
Shit! The taxi drivers win again!
Shit! The taxi drivers win again!
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March
26-4 - Larry Miller - ✓
5-11 - Daedelus - ✓
12-18 - Benjamin Francis Leftwich - ✓
19-25 - Elbow - ✓
26-1 - The Thermals - ✓
5-11 - Daedelus - ✓
12-18 - Benjamin Francis Leftwich - ✓
19-25 - Elbow - ✓
26-1 - The Thermals - ✓
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