Week 45

Week 45 – Tuesday 8^th November – Girls – Globe, Cardiff – £8.80

“How lovely to see a band whose drummer has the decency to face forwards. . .”

I woke up on Wednesday 9^th November having spent the night fully clothed on my bedroom floor. I had a sore head, a bitter taste in my mouth and very little memory of the previous day. In the pockets of my jeans were three items: a note, a Polaroid and a ticket. 

The ticket was for a gig from a band called Girls.

The Polaroid was a photo of Sandro in front of the venue, Globe.

The note had a badly written message in handwriting that I didn’t recognise. It read:

“Don't believe his lies. He is the one. Kill him.”

 

I looked up from the note, into the mirror, and I was horrified to see that there appeared to be blood on my shirt. Worse still, there was a foul stench in the air, and on the carpet was a dark stain, on top of which lay flesh-covered bones.

I had a feeling this would be one hell of a hangover.

-------

As I battled a horrible headache and a slushing stomach, I attempted to piece together the events of the night before.

My last memory was of Sandro and Dante Tyte bidding us good night, as Gavlova, Flapjack and I headed to Milgi to cap our evening with a drink. 

I was in high spirits and Gavlova seemed delighted to have seen a band whose drummer hadn’t felt the need to sit sideways-on to the crowd, but strangely, Flapjack didn’t even bother to say good night to Sandro and glared at him as he sauntered off into the darkness. 

Why did Flapjack seem upset? And why was Sandro going to bed before me? Surely that was a first.

I looked at my hand, where there was a messy message in black ink.  

Know werk tum oro, I had scribbled (proving that without spellcheck I’m a lost cause).

Ahh, of course. Gavlova, Flapjack and I each had Wednesday off work, whereas Sandro was not so lucky. But that didn’t explain what was eating Flapjack. . .

-------

Perhaps if I thought back earlier in the night I would find answers. 

I could remember the gig itself. Girls are pretty hot right now, having just released their 2^nd album, Father, Son, Holy Ghost, to wide critical acclaim. Girls aren’t actually girls at all, but a couple of deceptive boys. Maybe that’s why Flapjack was upset. The band’s two permanent members were joined by six others on stage, including three gospel singers. 

Hailing from San Francisco (where nothing bad ever happens), you might think they’d have happy, cheery Beach Boys sunshine pop songs, but their music and backstory have more than their share of darkness in them (a bit like The Beach Boys).

Front-man Christopher Owens has a particularly interesting tale to tell. In the music business especially, there are so many tales of drug addiction, alcohol abuse and lost childhoods, that even the most empathetic of individuals such as Sandro will roll his eyes, tut and tell you to ‘grow a pair’ if you’ve got a sob story to share. 

In fact he’d done exactly that when Flapjack had revealed that he’d been struggling with his dangerous dependence on custard creams. Hmm, maybe that’s what had done it.

-------

Christopher Owens didn’t seem to be sobbing, yet he grew up in extraordinary circumstances. He was raised in the infamous Children of God cult, and moved throughout various countries in Asia and Europe, cut off from ‘normals’ and schooled at home in a society that gave him no exposure to the wider world, until the age of sixteen.

When he made it back to the US in his late teens, in his new surroundings things went from strange to pretty shitty, as more common rock star foibles took their toll. He found himself in trouble with the law and hooked on various drugs, including the drug that never lets you go, no, not custard creams, but heroin.

These experiences inform his lyrics, making for interesting listening. Not the kind of listening that would make one want to have Sandro killed though, surely?

Having briefly listened to their first album, Album, and more extensively to their second, Second, I was delighted by them live. While nearly all the songs off their latest album were played, their first was also well represented, including opener ‘Laura’ and popular early single ‘Lust For Life’ which came midway through. 

While those two songs are fine examples of their lighter, poppier moments, the highlights would have to be the more emotional, slower moments, especially the incredible ‘Vomit’ and ‘Hellhole Ratrace’, both of which do their names justice.

An impressive set closed with ‘Morning Light’, a frantic, rattling song from their debut that sadly didn’t require a contribution from the gospel singers, and didn’t seem to send Flapjack into a murderous rage.

-------

It was then of course, that we made our exit so I was no closer to an explanation. I vaguely recalled the events before Girls. Amazingly, it was our first visit to the venue since The Globe’s death and reincarnation in August, our last visit being way back on July 21^st when we saw H. Hawkline.

Under its new management, the venue is now simply known as Globe, having seemingly thought little of the ‘The’ (they clearly haven’t heard the Manics’ cover of ‘This is the day’). 

Inside Globe, the refurbished surroundings were in stark contrast to what we’d previously known. Everything was new, clean and light. I didn’t like it. Where were the old, dirty and dark walls I’d grown to love? 

The biggest change of all was the much needed addition of air conditioning. The Globe had been renowned as a peerless sweat inducer, where only a fool would contemplate wearing underwear. Globe however, was the opposite. I even spotted a few people wearing coats.

Next time I visit, I’ll be wearing no less than two pairs of boxer shorts. Unfortunately, on this occasion I was kitted out for The Globe so Señor Pecker was swinging free. I was also wearing a short sleeved shirt, but even though the venue was fairly full, I found myself with goose pimples rather than the raisin fingers that The Globe specialised in. 

We’d bought a drink in time to watch supporting band Spectrals who seem to have a little bit of a buzz around them at the moment. Led by a lank-haired ginger youngster from Leeds, they were fairly good for a band who I’d never heard anything from before. Not good enough to make anyone angry or bloodthirsty though.

I’d have to think back even further.

-------

I looked to the Polaroid to jog my memory. 

Outside Globe there was a shiny new sign above the door. As Sandro pointed out, while on the previous sign, the O was a globe (on Atlas’ shoulders), the O was now closer to being a square than circle.

It was the worst O I’d ever seen and I’ve seen a lot of O’s in my time (I’m terrible at skittles), so I'd taken a quick photo with Sandro in front.

Looking at the photo in the morning, I noticed that right next to Sandro in the foreground, was Flapjack. He had a scowl on his face already. But why?

We’d met at The Claude, just half an hour earlier. Sandro and I arrived first and we discussed our movements since our last gig at The Globe.

“Where have we been going since then?” Sandro had wondered over a pre-gig pint. 

“Bristol, Swansea, Reading. . .” I replied. 

“You don’t have to name them all,” he said in vain. 

“. . . Welsh Club, The Gate, Cardiff Uni, St David’s Hall. Where haven’t we been?”

“Anywhere else,” was the answer.

Gavlova had joined us soon after, swiftly followed by Flapjack who already seemed glum. Was my memory betraying me? Maybe Flapjack is always a miserable bugger.

Dante Tyte also joined us at The Claude and I recalled that after just a few sips of his pint, his glass was knocked over in what seemed like an innocuous incident. 

I couldn’t recall anyone being to blame, but I suddenly remembered Dante throwing a dirty look in Sandro’s direction. Did Dante hold a grudge against Sandro for the spillage?

Enough to murder?

-------

I tried to remember when I’d received the note and who’d given it to me. Memories of Milgi flooded back and it finally hit me. 

I remembered seeing the note being slipped into my handbag just after I’d said something, but what was it? It was probably something insightful and intelligent, but what?

Flapjack, Gavlova and I had been discussing Christopher Owens interesting life and how much we’d enjoyed Girls. 

“The gospel singers were amazing weren’t they?” I said intelligently and insightfully.

Flapjack and Gavlova agreed.

“He’s not the liveliest front-man in the world but he’s a great singer isn’t he?” Flapjack said.

Gavlova and I agreed.

“The drummer was really good too wasn’t he?”

Flapjack and I agreed.

“You know,” I said. “Sandro thinks that the best kind of drummer, is a sideways drummer. . .”

There was silence, and then Gavlova reached for a pen.

-------

So, mystery solved. It was Gavlova, in Milgi, with the ballpoint pen. Except the bones were on my carpet and the blood was on my shirt.

Would I really kill my brother because of a note? I don’t usually do things just because I’m told to in writing, unless it’s a really important email from a completely harmless and innocent individual I’ve never met before, who’s stranded abroad and needs my immediate financial assistance to the tune of $9,000, in order to get home to his distraught wife, eleven kids and three parents who haven’t got two dimes to rub together between them.

As I sat head in hands agonising and racking my brain I received a text message. That improved my day immeasurably. “You really are a complete and utter moron. You were definitely adopted. From a family of inbred dimwits no doubt. ” It was from Sandro.

My hangover dissipated and the world started to make a little more sense thereafter.

The stain on the carpet was nothing more than the product of a glass of milk that I’d drunkenly spilled when I got home, which also explained the smell. Not ideal, but it was no use crying over it.

As for the flesh covered bones, well, they belonged to a chicken which in turn belonged to a lady called Miss Millie, who’d kindly supplied me with last night’s dinner (and, so it seemed, this morning’s breakfast). 

Now, you may think it a stretch to confuse a few chicken bones with those of a human being, but Sandro’s arms are surprisingly short. And covered in batter.

Thankfully, the blood on my shirt wasn’t blood either. 

It was vomit, reddened by Strawberry Cider. How lovely. Just like Girls’  song.

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November
 
29-4 - Arctic Monkeys - ✓
5-11 - Girls - ✓
12-18 - ?
19-25 - Wild Beasts
26-2 - Foster The People + Kasabian