Gig Review: Tales from the Back Passage: The Flesh Happening and Other Adventures in Space

There’s been no lack of live music in The Land of Fabpants during past couple of weeks or so, and the good days are set to continue. I’ve seen two artists singing about excrement, and I’m not sure what that says about me, my tastes and my friends. But, do we give a shit? No, we never give away our shits.

On the 14th March, I was signed into a ‘private members’ gig at The Cowley Club. For those of you who don’t know it, The Cowley Club is a libertarian social centre run by volunteers. The members, when they’re not doing whatever it is they do, spend long afternoons discussing how to instigate social change and sowing small revolutionary seeds.

‘Private members?’ I hear you cry. I know, it simply screams out ‘we’re inclusive’, doesn’t it? The revolution is only for those that have spent three months, at the very least, sharing the social responsibility of recycling tetra paks in a communal space, don’t you know? Everyone else gets shot. Actually, it’s easier to sell alcohol in a private members bar, and they’re all addicted to vodka. Or maybe they’re just scared of having their ideals diluted by outsiders. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell.

It was at the Cowley Club that I saw ‘The Flesh Happening’.

Did the flesh happen? It sure did.

It started as a synthetic novelty and became increasing asexual as the night disrobed. Yes, the lead singer, Oliva Spleen, a thin towering giant, lurched into the room adorned in a cheap suit of foamy flesh. Yum. The flesh did happen. Primark really do think of everything these days.

Oliva’s face was filled with dark feigned torment. Wayward gothic tears pretended to fall from his large shallow eyes.

Someone has been stealing at ‘Claire’s Accessories’, I heard a policeman telling the staff at Rounder Records two days earlier. All the clues are there. ‘Getting ready is half the fun’ is their tagline. Surely, they know that their proposed ethos includes shoplifting? Don’t they? Teenage girls and men like Mr Spleen need a hobby. They need more than just a flesh suit and legal purchases. There’s a reason that Oliva changed his name.

I wanna be adored, no sorry, he wants to be adored. You adore him, you adore him, he wants to be abhorred.

Oliva Spleen is the fetish version of Justin Hawkins, with short black hair. While, the band may turn in their beds to read such comparisons, Oliva and dear old Justin may well have come from the same attention seeking womb. One came out with the voice of a screaming girl and the other erupted as a screaming queer; both in love with being stared at in tight bodysuits. Extreme vanity does like to be nurtured.

Before long, artificial flesh, ripped and ragged, revealed whiter flesh in a tight leather leotard. Yum yum. Do I have to write ‘not’? Oliva reeled about on the dirty floor, and a wooden spoon came out of his anus, or was that just a rumour? “Shit on Me, Shit on Me” indeed.

In the music, fans of wailing punk might delight. The lyrics were not thought provoking or clever, but they were provocative and a little obsessed with one topic. Yes, abolishing the Monarchy. No, subverting the mass media. Yes, burning down the immigration centres and setting the people free. Okay, none of the above. “You were a shirt lifting, deep fisting, cock sucking, fudge packing, friend on a bender”.

Sung with enough angst to give the impression of artistry, I’m sure that their songs will gather a strong following of dedicated fans. Provocative ditties for an alienated subculture have often done well, especially with an extreme front person. The voyeuristic upper middle class love that shit too. ‘Oh darling, did you see that sausage protruding from his poo hole?’ Forget the Dead Kennedys, they forgot to leave their brains behind, this is the Sex Pistols with an asshole obsession.

But, to say that they are a pure punk band would be wrong. Some of the songs were sweetly melodic, such as ‘One Up the Wrong’n’ and ‘Hitler and Jesus’. Still Oliva tries too hard to inject meaning into the words, and they end up sounding painfully contrived. There’s no denying the entertainment factor. I’m still convinced that they were conceived in an 80s squat, and got lost in the basement for 30 years.

Well, enough of all that.

Who else have I seen? Well, here’s a summary. I’m too lazy or busy to write much more.

They Came From the Stars (I Saw Them), 15th March 2008
An alien band, who initially sounded a bit too like an experimental jazz outfit (that’d be the sax) and then progressed into some fun psychedelic dance tunes. They wore nice white outfits and couldn’t sing. The songs were great when no one sang. I danced. The record company boss (“I’m a one man outfit, please buy something”) tried to sell me their album of six songs for £10. I offered him £6. He said £8. I asked him if the band’s singing was better on the CD. He said ‘no’ and walked away.

Stanley Brinks (aka Andre Herman Dune), Freschard and The Purple Organ, 18th March 2008
A-fucking-mazing. I’m not sure I should say anymore. It might break the spell. A-fucking-mazing. That’s it. I’m leaving it there. Go off, investigate and discover.

El Guincho, 23rd March 2008
‘Are you a looper?’ This guy is. He loops and loops and loops. Repetitive? No, never. Okay, yes. Very. With his left hand he twiddles a vast array of knobs to play samples, beats and wonderful Latino freckled grooves. With his right hand he plays a solitary drum and generates captivating tribal rhythms. With his voice he chants. What he chants, I have no fucking idea. Maybe it’s Spanish; he is. I danced. When I got bored of a song, I danced some more. And one by one the loops began to fade and die. It was like a microcosm of life.