Live! Tonight! In Portsmouth! Possibly…

Presented by TS Evinrude, Gorgeous Cretin and Omnimoda Music.

There’s a ticket tonight that is hotter than quark-gluon plasma. It’s the only place to be. It’s the lateral earache epitome. It’s the auditory equivalent of a Dutch ping-pong volcano. It’s the fossilized clitoris of the lady in the lake. It’s hair colouring rampant with a legless pelvic motion.

And it is free, children, it is free!

Expression is the first word in our alphabet. Repression will be locked in the Austrian cellar of lost youth. To that end there won’t be no private standing army, bald and black-clad, turning away bearded 90-year-olds for lack of photo ID.

This revolution will not be supervised.

So Bolton chunderer, do you feel jaded by modern music, like it says nothing to you about your life, that it’s all gone fluffy ‘n’ tame? That ideas have been crapped all over by ballroom bung jockeys? That every nubile soundwave has been mutilated by October’s idiots?

Are you bored to the back gusset of groups like Jail Them Now, that whiney, Z-chord, skinny-trousered, peabodied, yellow-bellied, daisy-chained brigade of leg-slapping thigh-breeders?  Those whelps who, until last Thursday when they were crowned Kings of Bile by the NME, were re-taking their sixth year of BSc Sensation Management?

You sick to the flaming bin man of The Dawn of the Pocket Calculator, Montenegran electroclashishists who think that digging your uncle’s Casio keyboard up from the patio is going to give you some slipper-powered slave-buggy to stardom? Have you coalesced furtively around the footsteps of suicide as soon as YouTube serves you up a ten-draw of cold-played mechanized griefutainment?

And everyone knows that Yobbish Rhubarb Spree are yesterdecade’s news.

Which is why we got this supra-cosmic event planned. But the catch is, we can’t tell you where it is. Like the raves of the eighties, the location must be secret. I’m afraid you’ll have to blunder around like Stevie Wonder savagely deprived of his four remaining senses.

So whaddawegot?

We got The Unlimited Refills, the choppiest, most caffeine-addicted hardcore outfit currently gritting their teeth in Mexico.

We got para-Gothic love songs from Mr Lucifer Pillowtalk.

We got The Graduated Sneeze Orchestra. No instruments, just 112 people afflicted with miracle-grow tuberculosis, influenza and H5-911-induced whooping cough.

We all know that burlesque is the French word for stripping, right? So watch the Grotesque Burlesque; obese old women riddled with sexually-transmitted illnesses. It’s fun for all the family, and many family-planners have been said to be amused at bawdy jokes about race.

The Glenys Kinnock Nightmare will be doing one of their legendary ‘laser gigs’, where a thousand plimsole-encumbered ‘main socket shockers’ blind in perpetuity while the lithium battery cheat is enabled. Anyway Glenys won’t be able to make it tonight, she has an important vote at the House of Lords to attend, but standing in for her will be a seven foot-tall batik phallus.

The drummer for the Nightmare spent six of his thirty-eight formative years being shot in the eye with a Nintendo light gun. That made him as sharp as nettle and radon homebrew. He remains perturbed, however, by the sight of poorly animated 8-bit ducks. These of course will be released continuously should the taxi full of breadknives fail to appropriately goo the temporals.

We got Kid Fizzy and the Interrupted Perverts. I’d like to say more about them, ladies and gentlemen, but the bye-laws of decency prevent me. Their single ‘Can You Hear Norway In Your Sleep?’ is number 7,407 on the Lidl download chart. Tomorrow the world!

If you thought Robert Mugabe was on his way out, think again. He’s made a career change, become a superstar DJ and rebranded himself as Bobby Mu. See him go bombastic in his polling booth. Enjoy his beats, cuts and scratches – literally.

General Glancing Blow and the Dosh Wheelbarrow Boys are shoe-casing their new 8.32 inch ‘The Cold Fisssss of Daybreak’. It conveys a heartfelt wonderment with the sensation of wiping baby gristle from a Nepalese-engineered shovel.

We got Carbonated Grandmother Secret, Wayne Rooney’s favourite post-match band aid.

We got Mrs Clapper-Flo Cripplebrandy, fresh and flitty from her hip-hoperation. The 97-year-old guitarist’s guitarist. She does the Pete Townsend windmill, she does the Hendrix axe-burning, she does the Angus Young wear-a-school-uniform-and-push-yourself-along-the-stage.

Remember, ladies and gentleman, a lozenge is for minutes not just a Christmassy afterthought.

We got Creeping Jesus Industries, neo-gospel post-G-funk collective trying to spread creationism into our notions about wheatgerm.

The Muddy-Knee Turnstylists. On-stage they wear green bodywarmers, riding boots and play guitars whittled into the shape of Purdey shotguns. Back in the day they did the official anthem for the Countryside Alliance. It’s called ‘A Funslot Full of Buckshot.’ Bobby Mu’s on that too.

Clifton Brogue Slaz Tempo. We don’t know who they are but we owe an awful lot of money to their management.

Watching Buddha’s Eyebrows is a performance art piece by Tasmanian recidivist Carlos ‘Youth’ Hostel-Torchwood.

Sonic alchemist Frip Clawhammer and his sound collage of over six different types of 161 bpm car alarms, jellyfish warning sirens and the awkward noises made by someone hiding a motorbike up a tree.

We got 99 Punctuating Pi, mathematical sequencecore blazetrailers currently occupying senior academic posts at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. For their encore they set complex astrophysics formulae to emo-gymnastic deciduous cesspit music. A little bit too clever when they divide it all by one before going into cosine mode.

Swordfish Lampoon take a wry look at the ever-hilarious traditions of native Idaho green-grappling. This was explained to me in passing but my mode of transport was under attack at the time. And I refuse to crawl on radio for anyone…

Garbled Spacecraft Anointment are the only rockers to have outrun the creation of existence. Their current record of 62 and a half looks to be swallowed shortly, so they’ll be a little bit more red-faced than usual. Give Marmaduke a wide berth at the bar or you might spot the inception of time itself. That’s the bit when Odin sets Aries’ double-bed on fire, flicking ash after an all-night squeal-thru party. Bloody Rupert Murdoch!

We got Futile Vigil For Heath Ledger. They’re pointless and passé, but in a really alluring way. The cleavage has said to resemble a woman’s breasts but satellite intelligence is a little sketchy on that one.

The Spent Cartridges are best known for promoting safe sex around the Lake District and the Hindu Kush. Their romantic ditty ‘All My Best Drugs’ is available on vinyl records pressed in the shape of New Zealand – it’s a whole new format. But one that is sadly only compatible with the film director Peter Jackson’s armpit ringtone player.

Straight after that is Rose Hipnol and the Thankless Violations. Maybe we’ll have to change that. Hang on … you say they caught him where? Look can you get my nephew on the phone at least? Ahem.

We got the Jill Dando Experience, as morally-bereft as WH Smith’s eugenic magazine rack. Peddling rocket fuel to geriatrics is one thing, but sponsoring unmanned flights to the middle of Dando’s enduring memory is quite another. Musically enthralling with a hint of burnt coriander and musket balls rubbed knowingly.

We got the original funkdamentalists the Al-Zarqawi Blues Explosion, back from the dead for one night only with their tragic lament on the Iraq War, ‘Fallujah, it’s raining men, Fallujah.’ Who booked them, anyway? Phwoo. We’re going to hell in a blue rinse bother wagon.

This show will be the last word, the final judgement, apocalypse, ragnarok, end time. After this show there will be no more shows. There will be a rupture in reality itself. Like a zenthogenic experience, you’ll hear all that music is, ever was and ever will be simultaneously.

But whatever you do, ladies and gentlemen, don’t look into the laser unless you have an acute case of tinnitus or we’ll be having a mucus party in the pantry of downstairs yesterday all over again.


Photography by Moshe Tasky.