Wednesday, 8 July 2009

Suicide

Found yet another random folder on the PC (MUST have a proper clear out) and came across a document worryingly-entitled SUICIDE. I immediately thought, "It must be my draft suicide note, I would only ever do the final thing in longhand." But it's not that, it's a slightly mental sounding review I wrote (maybe for propertop?) of a night at Club Suicide which was just my oh-so favourite place to go back in the day. Reproduced here for nostalgic happy-days purposes. I think I was 25 at the time? Bynatone! Nylon Pylon! Fat Truckers! Oh the good times. I still have that New York Dolls Tshirt AND it still fits ...


What: Club Suicide
When: Friday May 16th @ Charlie’s, Rockingham’s, whatever.
Official: Gutter punks. Electronic freaks. Modern mavericks.
Diet: White wine. Mazzie Lights. Becks. Poppers.
In the crowd: Bynatone. Drunk Manchester publishers. Jail-bait. Ace faces from Homoelectric, Chips and previous week’s Black Angel vs Homo Disco @ Contact.
On the stage: Fat Truckers.
Regrets: Two. Number 1, unspeakable. Number 2, taking off my make-up with bog roll and after-sun next day.
Good things: New toilets.
Bad things: Queue for the bar.
Commentary: Except for an aeons-old trip to Harter St Lounge, I hadn’t set a trainer in Rockingham’s since the tail-end of an especially long work night out when seven or so random late-night boozers found usselves preening on the floor to BIG disco tunes while the two tranny DJs rolled their eyes all night and refused to play ‘Everybody Dance’ by Chic. Bitches, they love it. Besides, they weren’t even DJs, it was a tape.
Anyway, Suicide:
“Don’t fuck about, I’m serious. I have to stop in at least a month. I spent hundreds of squids in Barcelona, I went completely mad. Just till June, then I’ll be fine . . . Yeah. See ya.”
(brrring . . . brring)
“Hiya it’s me again, have you heard of Club Suicide? . . . I know, we totally have to go.”
If you’re off to Suicide, do this: wear a stupidly tight New York Dolls T-shirt with pink on it, you’ll make loads of friends. I did. If you want to keep those friends though, better tell ‘em where you bought it. I didn’t and they hate me now. I love Suicide. Except the bar queue.
Having heard about threatened group suicide at City Life due to rumours of a Bynatone split, and then having had said rumours quashed, was thrilled to see Rachael, one half of electronical pairsome ambling through the crowd of v sweaty bods. We exchanged smiles and I said how pleased I was to hear that the band was still together and do they have anything exciting in the pipeline and my isn’t it warm in here?
No, that’s not true, I actually said : “Brian . . Bryna . . Brian-tone . . Brilliant.”
She smiled and said: “We’re supporting Nylon Pylon!”
When she’d left my friend asked me “What did she say?” so I said: “Bri-nylon. Brian. Bri-nylon.” I don’t think anyone noticed how pissed I was.
I reckon I heard Peaches and the ‘Spooner. Minimum dancing by most people so we tried to make up for them. Drippin’. Fat Truckers, Bynatone faves and funky transistor-rock digiboyband, live on stage instructing us to wig out please. We did. Skill. Totally p-fat and computerly funky. Either that or they cancelled and I was still dancing while people shifted synths around on the stage behind me. Lovin’ it Manchester. Go there.
Historical gig by British Sea Power on the Wednesday after, Homoelectric with Chips DJs and the mighty Roger two days after that. What a week.

2 comments:

Kate Fox said...

Oh my god. This was the night before Lou's brother died, I think. Weird.

Gregling said...

Wow, just so long ago. Ben thinks it was the night he and Katy met too. Where has all the time gone?