What's in a name? WET WET WET

I always think of myself as someone whose heart is in the right place - 1987 most probably, and so how could I turn down the chance to see Wet Wet Wet play a small, intimate gig at KoKo?

Wednesday 20th May 2015

Wet Wet Wet

So, when did I realise that it was a mistake?  Possibly when I played a selection of their finest hits on Spotify whilst getting ready and realised that I'd never really liked them much in the first place.  But definitely when we emerged from the tube station to discover that the entrance to KoKo was entirely obscured by hormonal, middle aged women, queuing around the block to be the first at the feet of Marti Pellow.  

It started so far with our first EVER visit to Mornington Crescent.  Why?  Sorry, I haven't a clue.

Somewhat afraid, the dance happy girls took refuge in a pub, and this is where we began to unpick why we had got this so disastrously wrong.  Saying you love 80s music, which we do, is all fine and dandy highwayman but the 80s was an eclectic mix, less a melting pot and more a stir fry where each genre kept its own distinctive flavour.  We love synth and ska, new romantics and punks, rocabilly and reggae but, as a whole, we don't do unadulterated 'pop'.  I had the sneaky suspicion that Wet Wet Wet were the water chestnuts in our 80s stir fry.

Summoning up our courage we crossed over to Koko, and you can't walk through the doors without being happy that you came.  It is all chandeliers and plush balconies, cavernous toilets and twiddly bits.  

I loved it at once.  

It was however heaving and whilst longing to take a peak at what kind of woman had got the coveted 'at the feet of Marti' position, we held well back.

Sometime after 8.30 screaming announced the arrival of the diminutive Marti Pellow who introduced the music therapy charity Nordoff Robbins.  It surprised me that at Tech run, nobody had noticed that the back third of the audience couldn't see the screen because of the combination of the screen being too high and balconies being too low, so alas I was unprepared to squat and therefore learned little, but have included a link above.

And so it began.  At least I know now why they are called Wet Wet Wet.  Marti Pellow, is a good looking, tiny man (although in the name of research I must tell you that he CLAIMS to be 5'11) and he can still sing.  But personality was missing in action and who were all the other people on the stage?  The drips???  He didn't need to work hard to be fair, the screaming, t-shirt waving and no doubt knicker throwing carried on regardless but when you've seen the likes of Glenn Gregory, Ranking Roger, Peter Cox and Suggs really engage with their audience, work the crowd and perform their butts off, well it was all just a bit….wet!  He wasn't even channelling miserable bastard a la Terry Hall, he was all toothy grinning, it was just….. well, I think you see a pattern emerging here.

I did quite enjoy 'Wishing I was lucky' I bopped 3/4 heartedly and so here it is just for you dear reader.

I can't tell you how many songs they did before I casually said to my dance happy pal "If you think you've heard enough at any point tonight - I could be talked into leaving" and she said with inelegant haste "Let's do it!" 

The titivating area- blissfully empty as every other female worshiped at the shrine of MP.

It was a relief to escape to the blissfully empty, toilets in the catacombs and regroup before furtively leaving - hoping we weren't spotted by anyone who might know us.

On the way home we mused about life - and bacon wheat crunchies.  

"Bigger than I remember" I said

"Unlike Marti Pellow" Janie replied.

Hands off he's mine

Let me cut straight to the chase.  

I have hugged Ranking Roger.  

Yes I have.  

That is all.

OK, that is not all, but I like to dwell on it……

The Beat Friday 15th May 2015

Getting 2-tone ready 

I was short of one dance happy girl for Friday night, but luckily you don't have to try too hard to persuade someone to come to The Beat with you so I found myself at Fulham Broadway station (Can you actually say those words and NOT hear Ian Dury???) waiting for honorary dance happy girl Sue "Doris" Morris.  Sue and I were Saturday girls together in days of yore, and I have never, ever been on an uneventful night out with her.  But this was a reunion and thus bubbles were the order of the day in a bar on The Fulham High Road.

I could insert stuff about bubbles and barmen called Ben, notes scribbled on the back of receipts and weirdy beardies but this is a music blog - so best get to the gig!

I have to admit that I felt a bit 'dirty' walking into Stamford Bridge, and not in a good way - let's just say that I am not a Chelsea fan and leave it at that.  But hey-ho a couple of bottles of prosseco had done the job and I made it through the gates.
Now, unfortunately my tickets had not arrived and thus we were channelled into a short queue to see if our names were 'on the list' but fortunately it was whilst in the queue that I spotted none other than RR having a crafty smoke (really RR - how can you look after your body in every other way and yet still smoke?) and it was an opportunity not to be missed.  I ran over and gave him the hugest of hugs, I thought to say something intelligent or witty, something cliched might have done 'Hands off he's mine'?  but no I just made a noise akin to an insane purr.  I was too overwhelmed to even selfie it - so you just have to take my word for it.  Old school!  He had a smile and a word of greeting for everyone.  Ranking Roger, you are a gentleman sir.

Inside, Under The Bridge was a revelation, a great sized music venue with good use of space and just a sprinkle of Spearmint Rhino in the black and silver finish.  The women's toilets are without doubt, the best gig toilets I have ever used!  Sparkling clean, gorgeous soap, plenty of mirrors and NO toilet attendants offering lollies for cash….Under the Bridge, I salute you and your luxurious loos.



We took up a spot, right at the very front, and right on time, as the clock struck 9, The Beat took to the stage.

Ranking Junior

Ranking Roger

I love The Beat, I love the fact that they are still fresh and politically and socially relevant.  Being at a Beat gig is like being at the best school disco in the world….ever!  The fans are loud and proud and friendly, the music is the sound track of my youth and they look and sound amazing!  But this was a subtly different version of The Beat.  

Whereas in the past Ranking Roger's son Ranking Junior appeared as side kick to his dad, eye candy certainly, but 'in addition to', tonight he seemed fully integral.  A musician in his own right, performing alongside his Dad as equal partner.  New songs fit seamlessly into the set alongside The Beat classics 

"Stand down Margaret"  

"Hands off she's mine"

 "Too nice to talk to" and of course…Mirror in the Bathroom.

It was a set that worked on every skatastic level and was the very definition of dance happy.  We danced, we sang & we made friends who INSISTED that we go to the pub with them afterwards where conversation was punctuated with the odd rousing chorus of Ranking Full Stop.

Doris - you were BORN to be a dance happy girl.

Ain't no party like a Skinny Lister party

Thursday 8th May 2015
In the time PEP (pre exit polls) when we could dance with abandon and even a little naivety the dance happy girls needed to fill the hours between voting and watching the results roll in so we headed North to the O2 Islington to party with the bad boys and girl of folk.  Skinny Lister.

We lost the first support act to a few G&Ts but made it in time to catch Sean McGowan.  And what a little firecracker he is, a baby Billy Bragg, full to the brim with youthful outrage.  

You should be listening to Sean on the night of a General Election.

But, holy crap!  There is a special place in hell reserved for gig talkers.  And YES that includes the support act.  Skinny Lister was a support act when I first found them and now they're headlining.  So on behalf of Sean McGowan - shut the fuck up!!!!  Thank you.

I'll let the Eurythmics take it from here.

Skinny Lister shouldn't work.  

They are a fusion of punk and folk, celtic ballads and sea shanties, held together with beer, rum and a shedload of chutzpah.  But the result is quite simply a bloody good time.  The roots of the music is hot wired into our psyche and so inclusive, if you didn't know the words to begin with you find yourself stamping and singing yourself hoarse by the chorus.  

What do you call a man crowd surfing with a double bass?
A lunatic - possibly
But he generally answers to Michael Camino

It feels as though anything could happen at a Skinny Lister gig but regulars aboard the good ship skinny have certain standards that were well and truly met at the O2.
Crowd surfing double bass player TICK
Flagon of rum passed around the audience  TICK
Posing for a photo with Lorna Thomas (for her dad) TICK
And a roof raising, foot stamping, chorus of the song that stays with you for the journey home and beyond, John Kanaka        

TICK TICKETY TICK

A Skinny Lister gig is one hell of a party!

I left the O2 with my feet aching and ears ringing. I sang John Kanaka for 3 days solid, very loudly due to the ringing ears.  Skinny Lister, my friends and family Thank You.