What happened when EDITORS and merciless gangs of
salespeople took over
Proud Galleries, Camden on Monday 12th September?
Words: Destroy Royston
A 'secret' gig at an art gallery - how fucking pretentious. Still, it
had to be worth a look, right?
It was a sunny evening, and spirits were high among the 100 or so punters
who actually managed to find the place within Camden's orgy of retro
clothes shops. But then we soon realised all was not what it seemed.
It became distressingly clear that if we wanted to go and see some white
hot indie, we were going to have to endure a barrage of sales pitching
- proof that you just don't get something for nothing.
The band hadn't organised the night - it was in fact the work of a mobile
phone company which, with grim military precision, had soon herded us
all up onto the roof of the gallery. We were trapped. While we waited
for the band to hit the make-shift stage, drones were released to mingle
and thrust the latest twatish new mobile/camera in the face of everyone
present and take crrrrazy pictures. The company logo blanketed the area
and hired film crews took up sniper positions to capture the desperate
attempts to make us BUY! BUY! BUY!
These bastards were wearing us down, so thank fuck when the clock struck
7pm. It was time for Editors to rock this shit hole. The lads weren't
going to have it easy though, for the sound system could
only muster the equivalent power of a set of buggered Walkman speakers.
Good job then Editors not only have a set which is tighter than a ducks
arse, but one which is also littered with quality.
They may borrow from Joy Division and the Bunnymen, but there are anthems
here with enough power to fist their way inside you. And there was you
thinking they were just another bunch of mild-mannered indie shits.
On the night, singles Munich and Bullets caused the most internal damage,
thanks to the live versions being given added stadium rock singalongs.
Album tracks Fingers in the Factories and All Sparks also took few prisoners
during what was an hour of total brilliance. The bollocks sound and
all the unnecessary mobile phone shit had threatened to turn the event
something even less entertaining than an episode of Last of the Summer
Wine, but Editors turned things around.
As me and Serpico made our way out, we picked apart what had been one
of the more memorable gigs of the year. We had been sufficiently rocked
and it looked like we had even seen off the drones. This moment of weakness
was quickly punished by a man who launched t-shirts at us from a darkened
I now own a piece of clothing which tells me how much I NEED a mobile
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