The Nightlight Lounge, Bellingham, WA
August 3rd 2006
Pics and review by Phil Rose
This is the first gig I’ve been to in bloody years, mate. Seems
I can’t really work up the interest for it. Politics,
and being an old fart (fartyhood?) seem to have taken over my ability
to get out of the house. But having hectored Hector at Epitaph
records for a photo pass I figured I’d better go.
This was also my very first hip-hop/rap gig (unless Dub
War count or the Beastie
Boys at Reading
Festival) and I was interested to find that I don’t understand
I know that at punk gigs it’s every man for himself, wade to the
front but the theme for the evening from the MCs or singers or rappers
or whatever it is that the young people call these chappies seemed to
be ‘respect’, ‘unity’, ‘love’ and
the man’. ‘Fuck the man’, certainly. Always ‘fuck
the man’. So I felt like hulking my 6’4” body in front
of those shorter than I to get the shot and hearing or thinking I heard
a tut from those about me suggested that perhaps I was dissin’
someone or some such. Awkward. One doesn’t want to step on the
toes of da kids or anything rum like that. Most interesting anthropologically
or sociologically, don’t you know. Margaret
Mead would have been most thrilled.
Anyway, the bands. Were there bands? Oh yes, so there were.
RA Scion of Common Market. No bent bananas
Market are a most blandly named band (from a European perspective)
Bland by name, kick-ass by nature. RA Scion humps up and down the stage
shouting, engaging, looking like a good natured Malcolm
X with ridiculous sideburns. I guess the tracks of Common Market
are a bit too unity/love/respect/cliché driven for my taste but
nonetheless they’re funky as hell.
Boots Reilly preaching revolution to
Coup, when they finally come on (at 12.30, if you please. I mean
really, don’t these people have homes to go to or jobs to get
up for?) are worth the wait. In the studio they are a two piece, Boots
Reilly and Pam the Funkstress but on stage they become a five piece
‘real’ band with a shadowy
hunk of a drummer, weedy dreadlocked guitarist, bar-stool reclining
bass guitarist, wild and flailing dancer/vocalist Silke
and the sexy as hell, funky as shit Boots. He stalks the stage like
with an outrageous afro. He struts and exudes confidence without seeming
like a wanker.
He avoids all the stock hip hop moves, he’s funky and sexy as
all git out and best of all he tells us 5 million ways to kill a CEO.
is a rare and precious commodity in this country. Socialism mixed with
funkiness, rappiness, hippety hoppetyness and collaboration with Jello
Biafra occurs only and I mean ONLY in The Coup. Get it while it’s
God I stink at writing reviews. The Coup are fucking great, you should
buy all their albums and pay me for prints of Boots Reilly and Silke
for your wall. My
pics ain’t great ‘cos the buggers wouldn’t let
me use a flash
and the lighting was shitty. Bastards.
Not to Rosey: If this review is too short include the fact that a picture
is worth a thousand words and suddenly I wrote 2,550 words
Phil Rose esq