There isn’t probably any excuse for saying it, but I found myself at a goth concert last night. Now, this being Cambridge-Town, you can imagine the type of people that were there. The standard bloke, heavy set with no sleeves on his (black, natch) tee-shirt, beard of some description, dancing rather badly at the front. Not quite moshing, due to it being a goth gig, more stomping in place and spasming the upper body.
But the blokes aren’t really interesting at a goth gig, are they? It is the corseted heaving (talc white) bosoms of the dyed-bright-redheads that fascinate. (Mostly as you think they will be reverse flying yoda types.) OK, so there are the smattering of purple-haired vixens, too, but let us use broad brush strokes, eh? I do have a soft-spot for the old short plaid skirt, fine (bare) legs and kinky boots. I also have a soft-spot for the black skirt with strips hanging down, fishnets and stiletto boots. As long as the legs are fine. Some, please, no. Just no. More short skirts this time than any previous goth gig I have been to, less long flowing purple dresses. A few of a comparable age to me, most a lot younger.
I can see the appeal, honestly, I can, but the TPT tall-and-posh is more for me. Or a mixture of them both, probably. But please, leave out the explain to me why you are doing a PhD on patriarchal oppression in Austen nonsense. Because the world needs more fembo English graduates quoting poetry to smash the glass ceiling. Keep the legs, though. And the corset.
Leaving aside my unreconstructed sexism, what of the music?
I missed the first band, Fire and Forget, but hear they were better than the last time I saw them, which was a crucible moment. I did see Corrosion, and they were good. Better for not having played together, practised or gigged for the past eight years. Erp. Plus, at one point there was an ebow, of which I am a fan.
The headliners, though, were the Screaming Banshee Aircrew. Now, back when I was a Company Man, Charlie thought it amusing to lend me some CDs. One of them was the SBA. Best described as a student band who spent too much time listening to Floodland, it had a certain mid-80s charm. So how could you pass up the chance to see them? I mean, they have a chick singer who just goes Ooooooh, oohhhh-ooooo in the best backing vocal tradition of synth-goth. Not that they are synth-goth, given the spangly flying V being sported by the lead guitarist. The rhythm guitarist, of tousled shoulder length black hair, positioned himself beside a fan, so his hair drifted sideways while playing. All that was missing was the smoke machine. The lead singer, with requisite mad-staring eyes, and monitor-climbing tendencies, did his best mad-staring and monitor climbing, while clutching a mic stand with blue fairy lights twisted around it.
And you know you are in for a genius time when the Ooooooh, oohhhh-ooooo chick lifts her violin for the second song. Oh, the drummer didn’t look like she had a set of arms on her, but she could fairly belt the hell out of the skins. By this point, though, I got nudged and went downstairs, where there UK Guitar Hero championship was on. Or not, given it was quiet (aside from the bouncing of bosoms coming from above). But back up, and it was all in full swing. I lost Charlie at this point, more as he had taken his camera close to the front, and not to take pervy pictures of the goff-chicks, both on and off stage. Oh no. Of course not.
Again, this is a goff band, so we get the obligatory girl-in-torn-fishnets on bass, in unsuitably large platforms. Apparently she plays in another band I have seen, but she seemed to have a pokier nose and squarer chin this time, but that might just sound shallow. Not that the whole thrust of the start of this post was shallow and objectifying excellent pins and quality breastage.
I know where the door is. Once I finish the cider and black. Can’t get a decent snakebite in this town…
