Reid and I grabbed a traditional English breakfast and caught up on all of the world’s events thanks to The Sun. Now I know about the Lizard Ripper who beheaded a prostitute, the Elvis yob who broke up a pub, the woman who holds the record for most tattoos, and the seven-year-old who was raped by a thirteen-year-old friend. “Disgusting,” said Reid, referring to his breakfast. I was just glad to have been kept abreast on news of the world.
Because our rented Nord is a garbage sack of fried worthless circuits, our booking agent Simmo sent down a replacement keyboard for us to pick up from a castle twenty miles north of London. After winding through the blind, narrow sculpted equestrian trails of Hertfordshire, the keyboard was right there in legendary Knebworth. To our delight, Led Zeppelin also lent us a tambourine and a gong, The Beach Boys lent us their “Don’t Panic” sign, and Genesis died in a plane crash.
In Northampton, we split up and took in this strange town’s sights. Jagged-beaked birds showing lots of black legging mixed with puffy old tea bags on a shopping holiday. The men were 35% 1977 via 1994 punk, 25% pub goblin, 15% yuppie, 10% football hooligan, 10% scorned immigrant, 5% Manson fringe. I wanted to eat at a place called Alfred R. Ballsworthy but they didn’t serve pints. Across the street there was a burger and beer special for under five pounds, so I did that.
I saw Reid, who had just purchased socks in lieu of laundry. He had just seen Northampton’s own Alan Moore at a café. He wore his hair large like a wizard and wore a ring that doubled as a can opener. Alan Moore, that is. Coincidentally, Bitter Tears Alan had just been talking about Alan Moore, picking up the most recent edition of Dodgem Logic. Reid and I ran into Mike, who had just come from the cemetery. The three of us had a real ale called Rip Van Tinkle and discussed women’s haircuts and Pink Floyd.
The Labour Club has been around for about 25 years. The Labour Party uses it about once a month for meetings, the rest of the days it’s a rock club. It’s like a speakeasy- the bartender buzzes you in. Its clientele is men in undershirts, men in day-glo vests, parents and the children, Spanish speaking hipsters, and parents whose children have flown the coop. One of the men in an undershirt and I had a lengthy discussion on Vegas, Detroit, and politics. He wanted to steer the conversation toward “those damn immigrants”, so Mike and Reid left. We resumed talking about Vegas and Motown. Before leaving he gave me a sort of black power handshake.
The evening opened with acoustic labour folk from Ghost Train, prompting a boy of seven to dance. The Bitter Tears played to an older mature audience. It felt like performing for a large family that accepted and encouraged your life’s errors. They drank pints and heckled, a refreshing surprise after the frozen fish tank of listless London. Gary the promoter passed around a hat that was actually an ice bucket and filled it with sterling.
All night the bar played great music. After our set, Gary, who spoke with a Ricky Gervais cadence, spun my favorite obscure Who song (“Dogs”). Andy Skank, who runs the club, locked the doors further and let us drink ales to our content. We sat on tattered velvet ottomans, ragging on Bruce Springsteen and certain aging British punks until Mike crawled off to sleep in the van.
I s’pose I’ve been a bit pissy lately.
