To see a Norwegian Rock God Sing in Leicester Square
I do not make a habit of spending Friday nights in seedy West End nightclubs watching faecal support bands and groups of leering, drunken Turks trying to gyrate to OutKast’s Hey Ya. These are not usually my things. However, I had agreed to see a Norwegian Rock God sing in Leicester Square and my word is my bond.
I also do not like being in Piccadilly Circus late at night. The place is saturated with an unpleasant psychic static that weakens my defences and allows far too many bad memories to crawl up the spine. Navigating the booze-soaked Friday night crowds is akin to crossing one of the outer circles of Hell.
The blow of traipsing over to the underground hole of Storm – a venue that has undergone several changes of name, but no improvement in quality since I was last there in my ligging days – was softened by an earlier meal at Ragam. With dosai to die for, despite its dodgy outward appearance, I am growing to really love Ragam’s fairly cheap but always cheering Southern Indian food.
However, once inside the squalid, sticky-floored venue my spirits dipped a little. The support band to the Norwegian Rock God were so bad I actually felt obliged to boo them, despite Surreal Girl letting me know this was not considered polite behaviour. In my defence, I can relate aside from the violinist and obligatory indie girl bass player, the rest of the band were not only generic, naff clichés, but so vastly derivative, lacking in originality and talent-free they were the worst band I have seen in decade.
With warm-up like that, the Norwegian Rock God was always going to look good by comparison, but I was shocked – he was bloody little star! This was the first time I had seen him live. Previously I had only caught snippets of his songs when he was working them out on an acoustic guitar whilst sprawled on my favourite sofa or heard them drifting through the bedroom wall whilst being tinkered with on his home studio.
Suddenly, what had sounded to me at home like nice little fey slabs of Scandinavian pop, were being belted out by a five guys who looked and sounded like an Aryan version of Franz Ferdinand. The band’s glam pop stomp had their young girl following dancing (which seemed to please the leering Turks) whilst the scruffy good looks and wishful cheekbones of the Norwegian Rock God seemed to causing a fair amount of excitement. The songs were good – though they all needed about two minutes of typical musician masturbation cut – the band could play and the Norwegian Rock God not only rocked, he charmed the pants off me. The pools of water in the bathroom almost seemed worth it whilst he was on stage.
After his band had finished, we quickly headed back up into the warm night and dense hordes of hormonally charged and increasingly inebriated revellers. However, having seen a Norwegian Rock God sing in Leicester Square, purchased two scoops Ben & Jerry’s ice cream to enjoy on the journey home and with the warm buzz of the best smiling company in London, even the epic fight through the throng to the tube seemed somehow wonderful.
I also do not like being in Piccadilly Circus late at night. The place is saturated with an unpleasant psychic static that weakens my defences and allows far too many bad memories to crawl up the spine. Navigating the booze-soaked Friday night crowds is akin to crossing one of the outer circles of Hell.
The blow of traipsing over to the underground hole of Storm – a venue that has undergone several changes of name, but no improvement in quality since I was last there in my ligging days – was softened by an earlier meal at Ragam. With dosai to die for, despite its dodgy outward appearance, I am growing to really love Ragam’s fairly cheap but always cheering Southern Indian food.
However, once inside the squalid, sticky-floored venue my spirits dipped a little. The support band to the Norwegian Rock God were so bad I actually felt obliged to boo them, despite Surreal Girl letting me know this was not considered polite behaviour. In my defence, I can relate aside from the violinist and obligatory indie girl bass player, the rest of the band were not only generic, naff clichés, but so vastly derivative, lacking in originality and talent-free they were the worst band I have seen in decade.
With warm-up like that, the Norwegian Rock God was always going to look good by comparison, but I was shocked – he was bloody little star! This was the first time I had seen him live. Previously I had only caught snippets of his songs when he was working them out on an acoustic guitar whilst sprawled on my favourite sofa or heard them drifting through the bedroom wall whilst being tinkered with on his home studio.
Suddenly, what had sounded to me at home like nice little fey slabs of Scandinavian pop, were being belted out by a five guys who looked and sounded like an Aryan version of Franz Ferdinand. The band’s glam pop stomp had their young girl following dancing (which seemed to please the leering Turks) whilst the scruffy good looks and wishful cheekbones of the Norwegian Rock God seemed to causing a fair amount of excitement. The songs were good – though they all needed about two minutes of typical musician masturbation cut – the band could play and the Norwegian Rock God not only rocked, he charmed the pants off me. The pools of water in the bathroom almost seemed worth it whilst he was on stage.
After his band had finished, we quickly headed back up into the warm night and dense hordes of hormonally charged and increasingly inebriated revellers. However, having seen a Norwegian Rock God sing in Leicester Square, purchased two scoops Ben & Jerry’s ice cream to enjoy on the journey home and with the warm buzz of the best smiling company in London, even the epic fight through the throng to the tube seemed somehow wonderful.
posted by David at 11:28 PM
9 Comments:
Despite my Anglophilia, I do not know what the term "naff" means. I feel kinda dumb now.
But I did have Southern Indian food for dinner tonight, and I guess that makes me somewhat cosmopolitan. I had an onion dosai (dosa?) with rasam. And my local perveyor of these delicacies also has an outwardly icky appearance. I guess that goes with the territory.
Sounds like you had a banging night out and bloody justly deserved too.
Your writing style inspires me. I was there with you at the concert and very curious to know which Norwegian Rock God you saw...it was immaterial to my enjoyment of this post but a curiosity nonetheless.
How lovely to be so pleasantly surprised. That is truly one of life's little treasures. However, i know what you mean about the seedy club. The older i get, the less tolerance i have for something i used to think was amazingly cool in my younger days.
I like the images in this, thanks for sharing!
It sounds like questionably talented warm-up bands, filth-infested bathrooms and sloppy drunks are universal. You could have been describing most of the countless dives that I have infiltrated in search of tolerable music and a decent vibe.
Naff: Demonstrating a cheap, tacky sense of aesthetic taste that almost anyone else would consider far too embarassing to indulge in public.
Which means, of course, that different social groups tend to find different things naff.
However, big permed hair, shoulder pads and a power skirt are now totally naff just about everywhere. As is wearing one lace glove. (This year anyway... we must be coming up to the 80s fashion revival craze soon...)
You saw Thor? What other Norwegian Rock Gods are there? Aside from Ronnie James Dio, that is.
Given my current security concerns I cannot provide details of the Norwegian Rock God and his band. Sorry.
However, I can assure everyone he has better cheekbones than Thor and whilst he might not do the Dio hot water bottle thing, he does rock.
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