GUNBLOG 6 – The Taming Of The Shrewsbury – 14th July ‘07
In preparation for this week’s trip to Brighton, we ate rock, watched gay porn and beat the piss out of some mods, which was a clear mile more fun than sitting on the M25 for three weeks arguing about Billy Corgan’s squeaky little voice and listening to ‘Highway To Hell’ on repeat (it was the only CD we had, Because Stevie rushed me out of the house, sockless and poorly attired).
As soon as we arrived, we abandoned the motor on double-yellows outside the venue, made a dash for the pier like Sunny-D drunk six-year-olds, had our chips nicked by seagulls and wasted ten quid in two-pences trying to win ten-pence in two-pences. Smart.
We were playing a venue called ‘Audio’ with a killer band called ‘Flick Everett’, who we opened up for at 8.30ish, in a room populated by the few people we managed to press-gang outside with promises of free booze … A promise upon which we ultimately failed to deliver.
The thing is, we work according to a specific credo (hate that word, but an appropriate alternative escapes me), and that is – ‘We’ve come a long way, and that fat, drunk dude could be McGee.’ So we played, as always, as if it were our last night on earth. In the end, it wasn’t exactly what you’d refer to as a triumph but we had ourselves a riot, and any trip to the seaside’s a good trip to the seaside … With the possible exception of Dunkirk, I guess.
The following day, nursing hangovers, we were off to Shrewsbury, where it was the finale of ‘Civil War Week’. The whole town was full of Sealed-Knot types in armour and green tights, smoking long clay pipes and carrying pikes. Whilst trying to locate the venue, we were flagged down by an irate Roundhead, who tapped on the windscreen with his halberd and said, ‘You can’t come this way, mate … Battle’s about to start.’ Now, there’s a first.
On the subject of civil war, we arrived at the Buttermarket to find that we were on the bill with three of the heaviest bands this side of Norway. The first thing we asked the promoter was if the crowd would be throwing glass or plastic at us. ‘Both,’ he said. This was not good news.
Because ‘Felching The Dead’ didn’t show up, we were on stage in a hail of spit, piss and vinegar by midnight, scared shitless, though we weren’t about to show it, and very much aware of the exits. We needn’t have worried – those rockers really took to us, God bless ‘em. In fact, they put on a better show than we did, hair and leather all over the gaff. Hope we get to go back there soon, cos they got us drunker than fuck afterwards … Period costume, or no period costume.
The only down side is that I’m going to have to leave Maria’s corpse in a ditch for being such a shit shot with a pint of lager and soaking my fucking amp, instead of me. Nice.
Anybody know Rupert’s number?
Thanks for listening.
Next week: Wrecked in Wrexham, or Wrexham’s wrecked?
GUNBLOG 5 - All Quiet on The Welshman Front - 7th July ‘07
On a weekend when the Rio carnival descends into a running battle the like of which hasn’t been seen since ‘The Warriors’, and the world’s most inept terrorists barbecue themselves for no obvious reason at Glasgow airport, it may seem indulgent to suggest that we were having a rougher time than most, but bear with me.
Saturday morning we left a sunny but windswept wolverhampton to head for the Workhouse Festival, which takes place on the outskirts of some village in Wales, the name of which starts with seven Ls and which has a smaller human population than Venus. Although the weather forecast had suggested something of a Biblical deluge, our spirits had been galvanised by the Midlands’ blue skies and a bottle or two of wholesale Lambrini. We should have known better. The moment we crossed the border between Shropshire and Wales the rain came down harder and harder until, by the time we were anywhere near the festival, visibility had been reduced to whatever was on the dashboard.
Having negotiated our way onto the ‘car park’, which was harder than getting through Checkpoint Charlie with five-hundred bales of Levi’s, we immediately got stuck in the mud and had to be extricated by a tractor, driven, apparently, by a drunken relative of Ayrton Senna. After he’d dumped us on top of a pile of straw and taxed us half a crate of lager in lieu of a tip, our manager, Jase, and I decided to try and locate event control and grab our passes. We gaffer-taped plastic bags over our inappropriate footwear, opened a beer and set off through waist-deep dilute cow shit, morale crumbling with every step.
Two fields away, we finally found it … The Somme. All that was missing were fifteen-thousand Germans and the screaming of artillery shells. We joined the back of a queue headed up by a sullen middle-aged man complaining that there were fifteen-year-old children putting speed in their eyes and - ‘a constant stream of inebriated Beatniks who insist on urinating all over my fucking caravan’, and waited with the patience of Job for our wristbands, before braving the return journey to the ‘car park’.
After lying through our teeth to the rest of our party regarding the conditions on-site, we finally managed to persuade them to fore-go the dryness and safety of the car and enter the fray.
The horror. The horror. Horizontal rain, the smell of flooded chemical toilets and stewed vegan burgers, millions (and I mean millions) of hippies, feral children, glow sticks and fucking klaxons. And, to make matters worse, the programme’s telling us that we’ve missed our slot by twenty-four hours. At this stage I’m wondering what hellish wrong I must have once committed to be the victim of such an awful karmic battering, and looking around me I can tell that I’m not alone.
So we hit the booze hard, because if we’re playing at all it’s not for another ten hours, and we try to get into the swing of things by watching a limitless parade of fuck-awful screamo bands, by eating fuck-awful chips and by searching in vain for a pair of wellingtons that doesn’t cost £25. Eventually, soaked to our collective skins, we find that we’re beginning to enjoy the experience. Then we find out that our placement in the programme is a misprint and that we’re playing at nine-fifty pm on the ‘Baa’ stage (a pile of sodden pallets in a four-man tent). Things are looking up, and we are now very much up for it.
Having sobered up a little, the girls change into battle-dress, Chris slathers his face with camo paint and we hit the stage running. By the end of track one, the tent’s full to bursting and we’re playing in front of an absolute riot. Maria soaks a particularly dumb heckler (who came there and said that) with warm Lambrini, and Bird, wearing the world’s smallest tutu, whips the crowd up by saying - ‘recycle this, you vegan fucks!’
Tonight, we play our very first encore and make a bunch of dirty new friends. Afterwards, everybody’s asking for tee-shirts and CDs, but Jase’s left them in the car, and by the time he gets back they’ve all fucked off. Goodbye £150.
Bird asks me, ‘Why didn’t we have any shirts?’
I reply, ‘Because we didn’t think they’d give a fuck.’
Bird says, ‘Darling, you have to presume they’re going to give a fuck … Just don’t be disappointed if they don’t.’ Sage words, my girl.
Thanks to Workhouse and to everyone that cheered us on. You made us feel alive. Love ya.
Next week: The battle of Brighton beach. Plus, Murdoch (cos I forgot this week).
GUNBLOG 4 – ALL BLOGGERS ARE BASTARDS
I don’t know quite where to start, except to say that I must issue an apology and a retraction. Last week I suggested that Maria, in a moment of weakness had slathered deep-heat on her privates in a spirit of sexual experimentation. This was not strictly true, and for misleading you I sincerely apologise. It was actually menthol toothpaste and it caused a very stubborn rash. I hope that this has cleared the matter up … Literally and figuratively.
This week we got the chance to run out some of our new tracks to a packed house in Birmingham and yet another empty room in Manchester (is there anybody up there, or what?)
Let’s start with Birmingham, because we did that one first. At this stage the country wasn’t under three feet of water and Blair was still in the cockpit. We were playing the Bar Academy, which is right next door to the Carling Academy where Nine Black Alps were playing (Note to the academy management; Turns out that the passes from our dodgy little local gig will get you into the main venue no problem. You might want to close that little loop-hole, eh?) So we weren’t expecting much of a turn out.
We were wrong.
The new stuff was a little rough round the edges but it went down really well, mainly because they were drunk and we were so ludicrously fucking loud. Maria spent half the gig wrestling the front row for control of her guitar, Bird sang like a scruffy little angel and the climate was so North-African that Chris came off stage looking like he was in an Old Spice advert. And me ..? Well, I was on so much codeine for a torn shoulder that I could have stood on a Claymore and not felt a thing. Victory!
Which brings us to Manchester: Brown has kicked Tony out of number ten, you need a canoe to fetch the morning paper and a good man in a bad situation appears on television with a bomb strapped to his chest (for what it’s worth, our thoughts are with him and his family, and we hope that he’ll be home soon and in one piece).
The gig’s iffy, in that there’s just about as many people on the stage as in the crowd, so we’ll leave it at that. After the show we shake some hands and scoot. That’s when the trouble starts.
We’re whipping down the M6 in our manager’s people-carrier. Chris is driving because the rest of us are slaughtered, except our noiseboy Stevie, who’s riding shotgun. We’re listening to Prince’s new single at about a million decibels when it becomes apparent that the constabulary is behind us, blue lights flashing. After a short and somewhat heated discussion we decide that an appearance on ‘Police, Camera, Action’ isn’t the sort of publicity we’re after, and proceed to pull onto the hard-shoulder.
Having blinded everybody with his flashlight, the irate copper invites Chris to join him in his squad car and by the tone of his voice we can tell that he’s not looking for someone to share his doughnuts with. The girls, unhappy with the idea of being mulched by an out-of-control weetabix truck, disappear up the bank and hide in the grass like the Viet-Cong, leaving Stevie and I to try and lip-read.
After what seems like an eternity the copper struts up to us, informs us that Chris was speeding and driving without insurance and asks us who else has a license. Simple enough question, only problem is that I’m still the wrong side of tipsy and Bird’s a giggling heap. Which leaves Stevie, who, thank the lord Jesus Christ is fully comp and sober.
The copper then informs us that Chris’s excuse for speeding was sheer excitement at the quality of Prince’s new single, and asks us if he can have a listen. Sensing that this might offer us some leverage, we agree.
Sadly, he didn’t like it. More of a Def Leppard man, apparently.
Chris’s license R.I.P. Sorry, bro.
Next week: Festival season. Plus: Rupert Murdoch Ate Our Business.
GunBlog 3 - Return of the Boss-Eye
It has been brought to my attention that the last blog came across as at best a protracted whinge, and at worst the ravings of a man on the cusp of dementia. This was, of course, not the idea. So in the interests of rectifying the situation, and as payback for anyone who wasted valuable minutes of their lives that they’ll never get back on listening to me picking at scabs, I’ll keep this one short … And upbeat … Probably.
Anybody who regularly logs on to this site will have noticed that our beautiful harpy is complete. Ain’t she just an absolute darling? You see that logo? You see that Steadman-style spatter around it? Well, here’s the crack. Vegas Bob, currently of no-fixed-abode, is living out of a bag at his girlfriend’s mother’s house. Whilst working on a bunch of logos for us and suffering from the sort of sleep-deprivation one would normally expect from an in-mate of Guantanamo Bay, Bob found that A4 paper just didn’t offer enough space to create effective spatter. So, at five in the morning, desperate for an alternative, his tired eyes fell upon a pristine white wall in the hallway, which he proceeded, with some gusto, to shower with red paint. Having taken some snaps and found himself satisfied with the results, Bob fell into a deep and dreamless sleep from which he was awakened, not two hours later, by his girlfriend’s furious mother slapping him repeatedly on the face with a rasher of freshly cooked bacon (smoked middle). Art hurts.
In the meantime, us Gundogs have been working on our first ever cover version, and it’s turned out to be totally fucking twisted. It would be rude to give the game away in advance, so if you want to hear us do bloody murder to an absolute classic, we’ll be slipping it into our set over the next couple of weeks. It’s basically a lack of respect and we really ought to know better. Genius or Calamity? Our in-house forensics expert, the beautiful Bird, is currently doing the maths, dusting for prints and swabbing for semen.
Which reminds me, with regard to Maria’s deep heat incident … Apparently, I’m a sad fucker and am officially dead!!
I’d like to close this week with a poem … But I won’t.
Next week: Showtime.
Gunblog 2 - Blog Harder 16th June
If one more person asks me how it feels to be part of ‘the female Nirvana’, I’m going to emasculate myself on youtube so that I can offer an educated response. Why isn’t anyone asking how it feels to be the male Kim Gordon? Why does anyone care? Fact of the matter is that even in the new millenium we are living in a world where simply not having a penis is enough to set you apart from the pack. Yes, women can play guitar. Yes, women can sing … And yes, women can threaten to tear the throats from unhelpful soundmen at more gigs than not. That’s the modern world, get a helmet.
Gundogs do not spend every rehearsal marvelling at the fact that our genitals are different (some are more different than others, incidentally). Neither do we question the relevance of each other’s opinions on a basis of gender. And anyhow, at this stage all our periods are totally synched up. Bad skin and greasy hair all round for twenty-eight days of every month. Transfusion, anybody?
Talking of doctors, Maria had a moment of serious concern at rehearsals on tuesday when she discovered that she had fourteen missed calls from her GP’s surgery. Fearing the worst she rang them back to find that their West-Indian receptionist had been ringing up repeatedly to play Maria’s answerphone message, which is delivered in a faux Jamaican accent as ill-advised as it is ludicrous, to her associates. Panic over, Maria proceeded to ask the receptionist for advice regarding the best course of action when one has ‘accidentally’ got a large amount of deep heat on a particularly sensitive area of the body. I still don’t know the full story, but will try and get it out of her for next week … the story, that is.
Now, we all love our mothers, animals, our fellow man, that sort of thing. We’re basically good people, a little mouthy, sometimes misunderstood but a safe date and relatively good company on a night out. So why, I have to ask myself, are we having such a hard time making a good impression at the venues we visit? We arrive on time, we’re accomodating, we look presentable, we carry no concealed weapons and we generally pull a nice crowd (no glue-sniffers, convicted felons or Conservatives), but right now we’re getting barred from something like a third of the toilets we play.
Example; We got run out of Islington the other week because Yours Truly spat on the stage. The venue manager was going to impale me on a microphone stand. This was no idle threat, there was to be no vaseline and sweet talk. Result? Banned.
Example; London again. The aforementioned unhelpful inhouse soundman, who had been consistently screwing up our evening, took exception to our suggestion that he might want to offer assistance to our soundman, Stevie, and further exception to Maria’s suggestion that, failing that, he should fuck off and die. Result? Banned (probably fair enough as it goes).
Example; Wolverhampton, my home town. We get unceremoniously fucked over by the same venue that has unceremoniously fucked us over twice before. We hair-drier one promoter, who tearfully suggests that his partner is to blame. So we hair-drier him, too, and he says the same thing! Result? Nobody accepts responsibility and we still get fucked over … And banned.
Is it me, or is there a pattern developing? Maybe we need better guidance. Or a little Prozac. Your call.
Next week: Brandy, anyone?
P.S. To the Lawman - My revenge will be protracted, violent and absolutely disproportionate. I love you but your heart is a bastard.
Raven’s Gunblog
It ain’t easy being a Gundog. Rehearsing in an eight-by-eight box that’s like an oven for six months of the year and the north face of the Eiger for the other sometimes reminds all of us of being in Borstal, only without the compulsory exercise period and gay sex. Well, mostly without the gay sex, depends how much we owe the landlord (a monkey and counting). And everybody’s so busy! Chris is making a lifestyle out of drinking and digging trenches like some kind of deranged navvy. Maria’s philosophy of hair design puts her somewhere between Vidal Sassoon and Aldous Huxley after an afternoon on the glue bag. Leila’s criminal forensics course has left her with an unhealthy and time-consuming obsession with genital mutilation. And I’m looking after a sick father who can barely blink twice for ‘no’ when I’m around, but somehow manages to shag his wick like a priapic mink the moment my back’s turned. All of which means that you’d have a better shot at reforming The Beatles than getting us together for a rehearsal any time before the baseball starts on Channel 5.
The late nights have been paying off big time, though. Because a Gundog gets bored easy, we’ve been working on a bunch of new material to replace the stuff that we played to bits on tour. Tracks like ‘No. 8′ and ‘Wanted Woman’ have been buried with full honours (until we’re too battered to write a fresh B-side), and replaced with joints like ‘Feel It Coming’, ‘Dead Love’ and ‘Independence Day’. The direction is so exciting for us. It’s so heavy, sleazy and cohesive. They’ve really raised the bar, so we’ve re-imagined much of our other material to match. Suddenly everything feels so much greater that the sum of its parts, like you’re driving the biggest fucking truck in the world. You’ve got to come see it, because it’ll mess you right up. Believe and testify.
So, we got our act together musically in a big way, but we’re living on canned corn and roadkill, and those Marlboro Lights don’t buy themselves, so we thought it might be an idea to avail ourselves of some ready cash, as far as possible within the constraints of the law. We commissioned a good friend of ours, Vegas Bob, to build logos and create for us a beautiful icon to use on merchandise, in particular tee-shirts. Something that would be irresistible, that people would just have to have. We thought maybe a Botticellian cherub or some kind of burlesque angel, fallen and sullied. Bob read between the lines and gave us a bat foetus and a pornographic harpy … Perfect! That Colonel Kurtz looking fuck really knows which buttons to push. The long and short of it is that the results will be available from all the usual outlets, including this site, from July ‘07. Buy ‘em or we’ll kill your pets and ride you like a Blackpool donkey. Either that or come and sweat yourself empty with us at one of our shows and a Gundog might give you one … A tee-shirt that is.
Until later. The streets ain’t safe and duty calls. Raven.
Next week – Gundogs live – Which venue will bar our heroes next?