They kicked straight into “The Boogie Mansion”, a guaranteed crowd-pleaser. I left my companions discussing the new world order and made my way to the front of the stage, taking a position next to the drummer. No fancy drum kits for these guys. Just a simple two drum set, which was more than enough for Boy McLoud. James Flames complemented this with his old fashioned double bass on the other side of the stage. Then there was the lunatic in the mask.
Much has been said about the band’s lead singer and guitarist. He claimed that there was a little bit of Martin Rocka in everyone. Or that at least there should be. And anyone who had seen them live would inevitably end up with some of their twisted swamp music stuck in their head for days.
“There are only three kings,” he proclaimed with his hand held high, now that their first song had ended. “Drinking.” He raised a finger. “Fucking.” Another finger. “And Elvis.”
With which they launched into their version of “So Square.”
The Beast appeared at my side. “I like this bunch,” he rumbled, loud enough to be heard above the band. “My kind of music.”
He looked closely at some of the people around us. “You know, I always wanted tattoos myself. But obviously I couldn’t find anyone who could see my real skin to get them done.”
An unusual problem, I thought. I’d always taken tattoos, T-shirts and back-patches for granted. Being a normal, unpossessed kind of guy. I couldn’t imagine going through life with no control over how I dressed or how I looked.
“Now admit that you’d rather be here than back in that flat I rescued you from.”
I turned to query this, and I would have raised an eyebrow if I’d been genetically predisposed to doing so, but he’d already moved on, sliding through the crowd to get a more central view.
Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from http://www.amazon.com/author/burning
Till next time. Cheers.
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