Sunday
Our last full day in London and the last day of Camden Crawl began exceptionally slowly, as bodies stirred, eyes blinked, and hangover blacks were deposited.
Eventually Sandro, Salazar, Cousin Bish and I sleepwalked to the Roundhouse Terrace for our first beer and band of the day at the late hour of two pm. Dry The River were the band and they were fairly impressive. Complete with beards and violin, I was certain they were going to play some electro-funk, but was surprised by a folky, epic sound, with the song ‘New Ceremony’ being the standout example.
After they'd vacated the stage, 2:54 took their place as it neared three o'clock. 2:54 are a couple of sisters (not nuns Whoopi) who, in spite of the apprehensiveness of the sexists among us (Salazar), following the disappointment of Fever Fever, were actually quite decent. They were uncomplicated and a bit grungy, and there was no offensive yelping which Sal always fears from female singers.
We met up again with the rest of the group at The Monarch, where Heat were ineligible to perform due to the ongoing 'Canadian Blast', an event which had been showcasing Canadian music and was coming to a close with The Russian Futurists. They were a quartet comprising a ginger beardy singer (who wasn’t dressed as a mountie regardless of what Cousin Bish tells you), a female singer (who was), a less beardy drummer and the singer’s beardy cousin on guitar and keyboard.
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In truth the girl’s contribution was fairly limited ("Thank God!" said Salazar), but she did participate in a nice duet for a dreamy song called ‘One Night, One Kiss’. ‘Let’s Get Ready to Crumble’ was literally music to my ears and a fine example of their output, which can only be described as saccharine indie dream pop, or in several other ways if you prefer. Although Cousin Bish and I enjoyed the Russian Canadians, our companions were disappearing without a word one by one.
Sadly the dwindling audience signified that The Russian Futurists were in troubled water, but with songs like ‘Paul Simon’ we found that they bridged the gap nicely between the afternoon’s and evening’s music. I can see you shaking your head in despair even now.
With no real plan of action for the evening, after some canal-side curry and a quick trip back to the flat, Cousin Bish and I headed due south in the direction of Mornington Crescent tube station, more specifically Koko, which we quickly decided was our favourite venue of the weekend. Koko is a glorious multi-tiered former theatre that originally opened in 1900, and we had plenty of time to explore all its levels.
Dinosaur Pile-Up were the band who were playing there at quarter past six, but in my widely-ignored opinion they didn’t quite match the grandness of the venue. They did have one song we both enjoyed, “a new one” called ‘Daydream’ which was a bit less frantic than most of their stuff, which was nuts and bolts alternative rock. Each to their own though, and there was plenty of head banging going on, not least from their guitarist who wore an ‘edge beanie’, which Cousin Bish reckoned could only mean one thing: baldness.
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Next on our agenda were Little Comets, who K-May and Salazar had both recommended, but we didn’t let that deter us. There was still an hour to fill before they were due to play at Annies up north in Kentish Town, so we stopped halfway at Camden Rock where Mirrors were providing the entertainment with some synth orientated electronic wizardry that reminded me of a few dodgy 80’s movie soundtracks.
They played some good stuff, and I could even see some of myself in them, although their show nearly ended early when I came close to destroying the sound technician’s equipment. Luckily I avoided the inevitable seven years bad luck, and along with the rest of a well-populated crowd, had the pleasure of witnessing some weird and wonderful videos on the screen behind the stage, including a baby’s birth in reverse, which, as my mother will confirm with much disappointment, is simply not possible in real life.
Suitably disturbed we made it to Annies, one of the many bars that had transformed into a credible live music venue for the weekend, and it was absolutely packed. Little Comets started at around twenty past eight and looked surprised and delighted at the turnout. The Geordie band were out of this world (too obvious?) and played a riveting set of indie tunes. Their debut album ‘In Search of Elusive Little Comets’ was released earlier this year, and their set including some indie nuggets of gold, the pick of the bunch being ‘One Night in October’, ‘Adultery’ and my personal favourite ‘Joanna’ (or was it ‘D’you Wanna?’).
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We headed back toward Mornington Crescent, where I hoped to introduce Cousin Bish to the delights of Pete & The Pirates at The Purple Turtle. Disappointingly though, there was a rather long queue so we nipped back into Koko instead. The consolation that we’d both been counting on was British Sea Power, who were on at ten. Having seen BSP at The Globe in Cardiff, we knew they guaranteed electricity, just not as much as a dirty, great non-renewable band.
They didn't let us down, setting the tone from the off with ‘Lights out for Darker Skies’, and also playing the hugely entertaining ‘Atom’, the wonderful ‘Waving Flags’, the brilliant ‘Carrion’ and the protest song of the year ‘Who’s in Control’. Sandro joined us during their set, which might explain why Koko’s urinals all seemed to be overflowing.
As we sang 'Who's i Control's lyrics “Over Here! Over There! Over Here! Every-fucking-where!” and protested about nothing in particular, Cousin Bish and I stormed back to the centre of Camden, leaving our companions trailing in our wake. It was no surprise to see a massive queue for Razorlight at the Electric Ballroom, so we finished our weekend with Johnny Foreigner who didn’t start until twelve thirty.
I’m afraid to say that I don’t remember a single thing about their performance but I’m reliably informed by Cousin Bish that they were very, very racist.
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And that was that. Camden Crawl was over. I wish I could say that was the end of this tale too, as I’m sure you do, but it isn’t.
I was exhausted, and in shock that Cousin Bish didn’t want one last Subway, when we got back to our adopted home. Fortunately our ever thoughtful friends had cooked so when we stumbled in, we ate and had a final drink with the indefatigable Sandro and Salazar. I was looking forward to waking up to the news that Osama Bin Laden had been killed, but San and Sal were wide awake, so I had to resort to one last trick: a second Tim Vine DVD, Punslinger Live!
First however, I went to share my excitement with the toilet bowl.
Half an hour or so passed, and I hadn’t returned. Sandro, being the concerned and considerate soul that he is, raised himself and came in search of me, presumably fearing the worst.
Had I fallen and knocked myself out?
Choked on my own vomit?
Been attacked by an escaped axe wielding lunatic?
Or worse, bumped into a half-naked P. Mushy in the corridor?
Sandro knocked on the locked bathroom door. There was no response.
He called out my name. Still no response.
Realising that something was awry, he called on one of his trusty coins. Utilising his famous lock picking skills, he forced the door open.
What he encountered then would have been enough to scar most people for life and cause most lady-folk to faint, so it was commendable that he didn’t let out a blood-curdling scream there and then.
Instead, keeping his wits about him, he returned to the lounge to rouse Cousin Bish and Sal, and gave them the chance to witness the horrifying scene in the bathroom.
There I sat, asleep, propped up on the toilet seat, with 'Mr. Pecker' and his hand luggage in full view. They were kind enough to take a photograph for the ages, which I deleted for the good of mankind, after I'd been woken by the sound of a confused voice.
"Isn't that usually bigger than those?"
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May
30-6 - Camden Crawl - ✓
7-13 -?
14-20 -?
21-27 - Manic Street Preachers
28-3 -?
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