Author Archives: kzzinsky

About kzzinsky

First of all, if you're here because of the new foreword and disclaimer I wrote in the bible in the Premier Inn Gatwick, special hello to you. Come in, make yourself comfortable. I'm old enough to know better, but young enough not to care. I drift about on the tides of whatever has caught my attention in the short term, with very little thought to the long term consequences. I spent too many years doing the all of the things I thought that I should, buying into someone else's ideal of life, which never ever fit me. Now, I have binned all of that off, and I am just trying to be the very best me that I can be, for myself. I have a really simple take on things these days; if I'm not having fun, there is no point. That often results in me being a bit of a idiot...and then proceeding to tell everyone else about it. On that note, welcome to my blog!

Bowie

It’s taken me a handful of days to be able to sit down and put my thoughts and feelings into order following the announcement last Monday of the death of David Bowie. Over the last few years, there have a been a number of deaths of famous people who have touched my life in various and important ways, but I was not prepared for – have been completely taken aback by – the depth of my emotional response to this news.

David Bowie

There have been several striking deaths from the world of music in particular recently. There was of course the passing of the mighty Lemmy Kilmister over Christmas which, without feeling personal, was definitely poignant; the death of a true legend and – by all accounts – thoroughly decent bloke. Lemmy had lived the ultimate rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle for at least the last 50 years, and it had been easy to believe that he was in fact immortal. He always had his foot planted squarely on the accelerator of life, but after being forced to withdraw from a number of live shows earlier in the year, it seemed like the end was finally on the horizon. He always said that he wanted to die doing what he loved right up until the very end, and that is precisely what happened.

Prior to that was Scott Weilland, whose passing most certainly did have a personal edge for me. For many years, he had seemed to be teetering on the edge of an untimely death, but there was always a glimmer of hope that he might make it out of the other side of his addiction OK. I felt a great sadness, but also a sense of resignation, when his story ultimately ended the way I’d always hoped that it wouldn’t.

But Bowie was different. Bowie was pure, unadulterated loss – and completely unexpected for  everyone except those closest to him. A cross-section of my entire life had suddenly been sliced away. A layer of warmth and brightness suddenly absent.

David Bowie

I couldn’t speak to anyone at work on Monday morning, though to be honest, I’m not sure that my colleagues would have noticed; I am normally in a shitty, reclusive mood anyway due to being back in after a weekend of doing my own thing. I spent most of Monday dripping silent tears into my coffee, tucked down behind my monitor. I had my earphones locked in, immersing myself in the musical tributes on the radio, feeling wave after wave of emotion rolling up my spine, wringing my face into twisted masks and squeezing my chest until it burned and felt impossibly heavy.

There has only ever been one other occasion in the nearly 38 years of my life where I have experienced this level of grief at the loss of another being. Bowie was not family, he was not a friend, nor someone I had even ever met, and it’s hard to convey to people who don’t care exactly why it means so much. No he didn’t know me, but he had spent years talking to me, singing to me, playing music for me… Suddenly, for the first time in my life, there was no David Bowie and it hurt.

David Bowie 1983

I wasn’t born until 1978, so by the time David Bowie featured in my reality, he had already done his ground-breaking, rule-defying, scene-changing work. By that point, he had been accepted by the mainstream, and had achieved mass commercial success. This meant that while I can pinpoint the exact moments that I discovered Motörhead and Stone Temple Pilots, David Bowie was always just THERE; Fashion, Modern Love, Let’s Dance, China Girl, Under Pressure, Dancing in the Street, Labyrinth…

There was never any negative association for me with Bowie. He was just a talented, beautiful singer, who made excellent music and made me feel slightly squiffy as Jareth the Goblin King, in a way I couldn’t really have explained at the time.

Jareth

As I got older, I began to appreciate more of the history and legacy of David Bowie, the outstanding back-catalogue of work, the innovative progression of his music, and the stage characters – both human and alien – that he used to deliver it. He became an actual 3D personality who was always unapologetically himself in a way that I have tried to be but haven’t always managed.

Young Americans

I understand that there were a few dickish, coke-fuelled outbursts in his youth [which were all later rescinded], but despite these and his at-times controversial presentation and lifestyle, I have never heard or read about anyone saying that they hated David Bowie. I obviously wasn’t around for the more notorious and gender/cosmically ambiguous eras of his evolution so can’t speak with any authority, but I get the impression that he was SO different, SO unusual, that he provoked more confusion and bafflement than condemnation.

In the late 80’s, he turned away from the commercial focus that he had adopted and moved back towards being the Artist. While it didn’t bring him the laudits that he had earned in recent years, it was truer to his own sense of what he wanted to be as a musician and a person, and that was what was important to him.

Bowie Reznor

My experience of Bowie was that he always seemed to have been striving towards discovering exactly what it was to be the best version of himself; trying something out, taking the best of it and the lessons it taught, then discarding the rest and moving on. He always came across as good humoured, honest, thoughtful and utterly, utterly grounded.

Even into his 60’s, when he could quite justifiably relax and put his feet up, he was not a man to ride his previous successes. His musical style was constantly evolving, and in the 90’s he largely retired the back-catalogue of hits that he could have continued playing and flogging for cash; it wasn’t what he wanted, so it wasn’t what he did.

As someone who is increasingly uncomfortable with being valued on my looks and appearance, I have really tried over the last few years to steer away from using physical attractiveness as the measure of the admiration I have for other people. However, with Bowie it is frankly unavoidable. Especially early on, a massive part of the stage persona was all about the visual, and he was quite simply one of the most beautiful, striking, captivating men I have ever laid my eyes upon.

The Man Who Fell To Earth

Since his death, I have learned that he twice turned down the offer of honours from the Queen, because he didn’t want them. They meant nothing to him and they weren’t what he was making music for. He requested that after his death, he should be cremated with no fuss, no ceremony, no family, friends or media around him.

All things considered, David Bowie was the kind of human being that I prefer to have around, and that I try to be.

He released a new album, Blackstar, on his 69th birthday. I had no idea he had even been working on new music, so it was a delightful surprise. It’s since become apparent that it was made with the knowledge of his impending death, and based on the one track I have heard, Lazarus, it seems to also be his goodbye.

I of course bought Blackstar. It’s been sat on the shelf under my PC. I am not even close to being ready to listen to it yet.

Goodbye David, you beautiful, glorious, most human of alien creatures.

Bowie 98

 

“If you should die before me, ask if you can bring a friend.”

Today I cried for a lost love. Not a lost love who ever knew anything about it, mind – but a lost love nonetheless.

Music is a funny thing, when you think about it. It doesn’t even really exist, except as a memory or an idea. When it is being played, it is simply energy, a vibration, waves of pressure changes being perceived by our brains. And yet, there is very little that moves me as deeply as music. It is not something that I just listen to, it is something that I feel and absorb. It soaks into my bones and it pulses through my veins. Whether it’s good or bad, it is always a powerful and emotional experience, and it often results in my forming powerful and emotional attachments to songs, and albums, and by extension the bands that create and perform them.

For me, as someone who struggles to invest in emotional bonds with real people, it’s an intimacy that nothing else can really come close to.

My first brush with Stone Temple Pilots was when they had a song featured on the soundtrack for The Crow in 1994. The luscious, golden voice of Mr Scott Weiland wrapped around me like honey, while the catchy, bouncy and at times dark music was perfectly tuned to how I felt about life at the time. It soaked into my brain and added a new shade to my thoughts and feelings. There is a section of my brain that will forever be Stone Temple Pilots coloured, and over 20 years later, nothing has changed about the way I feel listening to that music.

Needless to say, my little teenaged self was later delighted to discover that Weiland himself was an absolute vision to behold.

Scott Weilland

It’s easy to sneer at footage of young girls in the 60’s, shrieking and losing their shit over the Beatles, but I totally get where that passion is coming from. I was just a little quieter about it.

In the late 90’s, STP shifted direction musically and I found myself stepping away because they just didn’t resonate with me in the same way any more. I bought a solo single of Weiland’s when I was at college which I loved, and gave me hope for great things from him in the future.

Consequently, I was delighted to hear a couple of years later that Weiland was teaming up with Slash et al in Velvet Revolver… but when I first saw him in a new video, I was shocked into tears. I had never really been that aware of his drug problems prior to that, but the destruction wrought by addiction was instantly apparent, and was powerful and hard hitting.

Watching that gaunt, skeletal shade of Weiland, the reality of what he was struggling with was impossible to ignore. I couldn’t engage with Velvet Revolver after that; it was too painful to see what had clearly happened, and was in all likelihood continuing to happen. I have since seen interviews with him in recent years, and it was very clear that he was either still in the clutches of a problem, or that some real intense damage had been done.

This morning, I woke up to the news that Scott Weiland had been found dead on 3rd December in his tour bus in Minnesota. I cried then and there in my kitchen, and I have continued to do so on and off throughout the day. I have not heard – nor have I cared to look for – any further information on the circumstances. Was it a surprise though? No. Not to me, and I don’t imagine it was to anyone else. Does that make it any less painful? No.

This was a man that I did not know, and had never met. I genuinely cannot imagine multiplying these feelings up to the scale of the pain and heartache of having to watch family and friends go through this same tortuous fight. Not being able to help. Never knowing from one day to the next what news you yourself are going to wake up to.

This is a goodbye to a man who never knew the esteem I held him in. It is also an extension of my heart and my deepest, deepest sympathies to anyone who is fighting their own demons – but more importantly, to their people who are helplessly caught in the current.

Islamic Scholars Present An Open Letter To ISIS Leader Al-Baghdadi

JONATHAN TURLEY

By Darren Smith, Weekend Contributor

Abu Bakr Al-Baghdadi Abu Bakr Al-Baghdadi

A consortium of one hundred and twenty Islamic Scholars have placed onto the internet an Open Letter to Islamic State (ISIS) leader Abu Bakr Al-Baghdadi denouncing the organization’s violent and extremist actions in the Middle East. The letter, in the form of an interactive website, provides the world with an opportunity to read a perspective of the Islamic State’s affront to civilization from an academic analysis by scholars. The letter addresses the fundamental and basis in canon for disputing the claims of Al-Baghdadi that his is the only pure and legitimate form of Islam–refuting his claims of divine assent.

The original, in the Arabic, is presently being translated into other languages. The English is presently available.

There has been unfortunately much misconception in the Western World that there lacks true dissent to the terrorist outrages in the Muslim World.  This letter can…

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If you EVER hear me complaining…

Every now and then, I get a really poignant reminder of how excellent and simple my life really is.

A few minutes ago, I was sat on the bus, on the way home after a couple of quiet pints in the pub watching the football. I was considering going back to bed for a few hours when I got home, before maybe listening to some music, or playing a PC game, or even just chilling out and catching up with some Youtube subscriptions that I am behind on.

Just then a woman – a little bit younger than me – got on with four small children, one of which was in a wheelchair, wearing a soft helmet, and methodically chewing his way through a section of carpet underlay. The other three, whilst being reasonably well behaved from what I understand about kids, spent the entire journey winding eachother up and testing their mother.

I haven’t always had things easy; I am not privileged and I have experienced my own fair share of trials. I have also fucked a lot of things up in my life, but I am deeply, DEEPLY grateful for the choices that I have made and where they have brought me to now.

That’s Not Metal!

That’s Not Metal Podcast – Soundcloud & iTunes

When I was a small child, I would get up off my bunk-bed after my mum and sister were asleep, put on my record player and massive headphones, and dance in the dark to More Than a Feeling by Boston. 30 years later, that song still makes me feel the same joy and childlike abandon, although I am less likely to bother getting out of bed these days.

Music has never been something that I just listened to; it’s something that I breathe in. I see songs playing in my mind. Music moves around underneath my skin, and touches me in ways and places that nothing else can – not even a double-entendre. There is no such thing as “background noise” for me. I find it impossible to tune bad sounds out; they make something in the middle of my head vibrate, and it drives me into a fizzing rage faster than anything else I can name. But when I hear something I like, wherever it is, it soothes me and draws me to it in the same way that the wafting cartoon smell-hand from a baked apple pie used to drag Tom the cat by his nose. I am, and always have been, deeply connected to music.

But a few years ago, I lost my way in life and in the process, I let massive parts of me drift away.

I got into a bad relationship. The details aren’t necessary, beyond the fact that I isolated myself away from everything that was important to me, and rejected a lot of the things that I was quietly steered into believing were bad about me. I cut myself off from everything that made me who I was, and I ended out as simply a mannequin with a bad wig. Except the wig was actually my real hair.

The weight of reality eventually caught up with me, and the relationship – belatedly – ended. As soon as that happened, I began the process of reclaiming myself. I spent most of 2014 grovellingly apologising to friends, ridding myself of a load of unhealthy ideas, and going to an obscene amount of gigs, catching up with the music that I loved. I began to breathe again.

Christmas 2014, and some little shitbag cut the cable from the old Sky dish I was using to pick up free channels. It was no loss, since I hardly watched TV, but it did mean I had to find something to fill the space left by BBC Breakfast. Enter TeamRock and Stephen Hill.

That radio show opened the door to a world of music that I had been missing. It was like going back in time to when mates would send you new songs on MSN messenger every day because they thought that shit was awesome and that you should listen to it too. It brought bands like While She Sleeps, Marmozets and Blood Command into my world and I loved it.

But then, September 2015, and the That’s Not Metal podcast – featuring Messrs Terry Bezer and Stephen Hill – turned up and kicked that recently opened music-door off its fucking hinges.

Beez and Stephen Hill have the same passion and joy for music that I have, but they have it squared. And fuck me, do they know what they are talking about. Between them, they have an encyclopaedic knowledge of music, and whenever Stephen starts enthusing, I sit with a notepad scribbling down the band names that come tumbling out of his brain. He has forgotten more about metal than I will ever know.

What I also love is the spewing venom and hatred for bad music, that only comes from people who truly and deeply care. Honest, unbiased, intelligent debate over music, mixed with the sheer power of anger and disgust over musical charlatans and cynical money grabbers.

I think one of features I like the most is the Album Club, where each week they sit and talk about their personal thoughts and experiences with a particular classic album – good or bad – and I get entranced. I could happily listen to them talking for hours.

Of course there’s the swearing too. You all know how much I love swearing.

That’s Not Metal has very quickly become one of my favourite things, and I get excited about listening to the new podcast every week – I don’t normally get excited about anything that isn’t beer.

Whether it be stuff I had on tape but never got round to getting on CD, bands I have never heard of before, or albums that had simply passed me by, this podcast has filled my life with music. I drifted for a long time, and I genuinely cannot remember the last time I felt happier and more connected to the world outside my front door. I’m not actually kidding about the amount of music either – I have bought all of these CD’s in less than two months, off the back of the podcast:

Goodbye, Disposable Income

Goodbye disposable income

I offer genuine and heartfelt thanks to the That’s Not Metal boys, and a massive endorsement from me to everyone else; if you care – and you should – you need to get on this Podcast.

You’re welcome.

Self-Defined Morality

You are walking down the street and you see a dog run across the road and get hit by a car. The car doesn’t stop, and there is no-one else around. You have a choice to make; maybe you don’t feel obliged to do anything since it’s not your dog, so you walk the other way and don’t get involved. You could be really scared and decide not to stop, but you call an animal protection society to come and help while you’re on your way to wherever you are going. Or, you could run over and help the dog. You could do any one of these things – and no-one would ever know either way. It’s entirely up to you how you respond.

Let’s say that you choose to go over and help the dog. There’s an infinite number of possibilities of what you are going to find when you get there. The dog could already be dead… He could be hurt so badly that there is no way to save him… She might just be stunned and you can get her to the vets, and she’ll be fine… You could end out covered in blood and crying your heart out because you really tried and there was nothing you could do… These are all the things that you could face as you wade in to try and do your best to help, to do the right thing, whatever that might be. Regardless of the horrible possibilities in front of you, you do it anyway.

Now let’s say that back while you’re assessing the situation, you remember that your parents are hugely into animal welfare, and will be so proud of you for helping, that they’ll probably take you out for a lovely free meal at an expensive restaurant when they find out what you did. You decide to go and help out the dog, because whatever the outcome, you know you will get a truly awesome dinner experience, just for doing a good thing.

The net result is the same; the dog gets care from a stranger, which it might not necessarily have had otherwise. It might have even been the dog’s last moments, and you were there to stroke its head and try to impart some comfort… You might be upset, but you can take some personal positives from having been there and done your part.

You did a good thing.

…but don’t ever try and suggest you are better than the person helped anyway, without the promise of a lovely dinner.

Catholic Faith

Vans Warped Tour UK, 19th October 2015, or “OMFG Frank Carter”

I haven’t been a fan of Frank Carter & the Rattlesnakes for very long; I heard Juggernaut on TeamRock radio not two months ago and I was absolutely smitten. The album, Blossom, was reviewed on the That’s Not Metal podcast a couple of weeks later, and I bought the CD on the strength of the review. I was not disappointed.

Last week, I was looking for tickets to see them, and I noticed that they were part of the Vans Warped Tour in 7 days’ time…

uk-2015

I ummed and ahhed for a bit. Most of the lineup meant nothing to me… but I saw Reel Big Fish and Anti-Flag, so figured there were going to be at least 3 bands I knew that I liked. I bought a ticket after not more than a few minutes deliberation, then sent an email to myself at work to remind me to book the day after as holiday. My boss has come to realise that holiday request = another gig.

So, Sunday rolls round and I rock up at the train station, where I am confronted by two immediate concerns;
1) there are a remarkable number of buses and staff in high-vis vests outside, and
2) I forgot to pick up my earphones on the way out of the door.

As for the buses; there were planned engineering works around Northampton, meaning a replacement bus service – but only as far as Milton Keynes, and in theory it should all have been completed by 7pm, well before I was due to come home. I was sceptical, but I’d cross that particular bridge when I got to it. Let’s be honest, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to get a taxi home from Milton Keynes because of London Midland trains.

The more pressing issue was the lack of earphones. I genuinely do not cope well with public transport, without the ability to surround myself with a shield of my own music. It called for an immediate trip to WH Smiths inside the station to buy another pair. I have an ongoing issue with poor short-term focus, one of the direct results of which being that this is the 7th pair of headphones that I currently own. Eventually, I suspect that I will have bought so many emergency pairs that my existence will be saturated with earphones. At some point it will be impossible for me to not have a pair with me at any given time.

20151018_113458

Ignore the gold paint on my fingers; I made a fake poo out of hot glue the night before. Yeah.

So, equipped with new earphones, I hopped onto the bus and found a seat that was so covered in glitter that it looked like a fairy had spoffed all over it. I can’t imagine what type of person would leave that kind of detritus behind them. Well, actually I CAN, and I don’t think we could be friends.

After taking a disproportionately long time to get to Milton Keynes – given that’s it’s only 15 minutes away – I eventually got onto the train to find no spare seats. While being by no means unusual, that still surprised me for a Sunday. I got to stand by the doors with people who smelled like they had been rolling in fried onions and smoking their little hearts out all night. Both of which things were entirely possible I guess.

To London! Alexandra Palace is a pretty straightforward journey from Euston; three stops north on the Victoria line, and then the W3 bus from outside Finsbury Park station right to the front doors. I unfortunately hadn’t paid attention to the actual stop I needed, so ended out getting off as soon as I saw ‘Alexandra Palace’ and had to walk the rest of the way.

Alexandra Palace – this is not my photo

I’d never been to the ‘Ally Pally’ before, and I was really quite taken with the building. I’m a simple creature, and impressive architecture makes me go a bit squiffy. I walked up the main stairs to the Palm Court entrance… and was confronted by a sea of people queuing to get in. Doors were supposed to have been at 2pm, so I was expecting everyone to already be inside. I of course did the common sense thing – I found a bench to sit my arse down on and wait for the queue to disappear.

I’d done a bit of investigation around some of the bands I wasn’t familiar with, and had come to the conclusion that I was likely to be at least double the average age of the rest of the audience. I wasn’t wrong. The throng of people waiting appeared to be an even mix of teens and pre-teens, and their parents. It was 90% tight black jeans (with and without knees), red and black plaid shirts, and anime haircuts.

The doors eventually opened at around 14:45, and after the herd had thinned out, I finally joined the back of the queue and got in a bit after 15:00. The inside of the Palace was amazing, and looked very much like something out of Bioshock.

Minus the Splicers, of course.

Minus the Splicers, of course. Also not my photo.

I had wondered how they were going to get through that many bands in one venue, but that question was answered as soon as I got the stage times listing, which had a convenient map on the back.

Warped Map

Handy floor plan, which cleared nothing up until you saw the timetable.

The two main areas had a pair of stages each, where bands would essentially tag-team in for a 30 minute set, while the next band were setting up beside them. I felt it worked really well, the venue inside was really clean and spacious, and was a thoroughly pleasant environment. It didn’t smell like piss at all, which did wrong-foot me for a while.

Lineup

I pretty much dismissed the two main stages.

I marked up who I wanted to see, and as it turned out, I had no real interest in what was going on in the Great Hall, besides walking through it to get the food court. While I was establishing all this, I had a major Fail. Over the last year or so, I’ve dropped my phone so many times (including into the bath) that I’ve become complacent and kind of assumed it was indestructible. Turns out, that’s not that case, and dropping your phone face first onto concrete is really not the one.

*sigh*

Bollocks.

Apparently not the end of the world though; 4 minutes and £8 later and I had a new screen coming from Amazon. I do not know what I would do without the internet.

Back to the music. All of the earliest sets seemed to be running a few minutes late, so there was a lot of trying to guess who I was actually watching at the start. I think the first set I caught was Twin Wild, but they had pretty much had finished by the time I got in and got my hands on some beer. Priorities.

There was a nice little side stage in a bar area away down some stairs, where I was able to capture a picture which I think encapsulates a large part of gig experiences for many;

View

Standard.

I floated around between the stages for a while and caught bits of sets from Tigress (I don’t normally groove to female vocalists, but these guys were pretty good), Forever Came Calling (seemed like they could have been good, and I am curious to check them out some more), Fearless Vampire Killers (would have been considerably improved had the singer’s mic been turned up enough to hear him. Or perhaps not…), and Metro Station (sounded good, but fairly generic to me). Later on I caught some of Beautiful Bodies set, and while I don’t really like to criticise, the singer sounded like an enthusiastic dog had gotten hold of a squeaky toy. Bad noise.

Something struck me while I was pottering around; there were a lot of tiny, tiny people there. I am by no means the tallest person in the UK, and there’s a fair chance that a lot of the kids there still hadn’t done their GCSE’s, but still. I stood in the queue for the ladies, and I felt like a giant. I had to resist the urge to fist-bump anyone who I could actually look in the eye.

The first band on my list that I really wanted to check out from a recommendation were Roam, but I couldn’t stay for the set because of the fucking lights. Seriously, lighting techs, will you knock this shit the fuck off?

No Need

Absolutely no fucking need.

Instead, I went back downstairs where I think Boy Jumps Ship were playing. They had been warming up since after Tigress finished, which suggests that Allusondrugs didn’t actually play their set, though I’m just guessing.

I headed back up later for Chunk! No Captain Chunk! who I’d caught before at Download, and I actually quite like. This was the second time they’d played somewhere I was already at, and they’re bright and cheerful and seem to be having a lot of fun. Also, their cover of Smashmouth’s Allstar is just infectiously happy.

Chunk! No Captain Chunk!

Happy bouncy French boys.

Next on my ‘to see’ list; back downstairs again to see Creeper. I’d recently bought an E.P., also on the recommendation of That’s Not Metal, and was particularly looking forward to hearing them playing a track called Novena. It was a great set, but punctuated by a very drunk ‘friend of the band’ – who’d already collared me once upstairs – who decided to make close acquaintance with a guy stood in front of me… and then subsequently with the floor, taking the guy’s pint with him.

Creeper4

Creeper – more gash photography.

Once more upstairs to catch a bit of Moose Blood while hovering excitedly by the stage where Frank Carter & the Rattlesnakes were going to be up next. I have to be honest, Moose Blood left no impression on me whatsoever. They can’t have been bad because I would have remembered, but clearly my fizzing anticipation overruled any interest in what they were playing.

While we were waiting, I spotted this dude who is clearly in the running for Dad of the Year.

Winning.

Kzzinsky-Approved Parenting.

And then Frank Carter happened. I cannot say enough great things – I have a far better vocabulary for things that are awful – but this is definitely in the running for my favourite gig of the year so far. Frank’s energy, and venom, and getting properly stuck in with the crowd… I was fucking delighted when I found the following picture on my phone;

Frank Carter

Absolutely outstanding.

If you’ve been here a while, you will know the usual lamentable quality of the photos that come out of my phone, so this was an absolute joy. Also, check out the majestic sweep of the mohawk on the bottom right.

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Just fucking wonderful.

That was right before he kicked off a massive circle pit, which he stood right in the middle of, inciting his willing minions into the fray like an angry God.

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Here is a man who had his audience eating out of the palm of his hand.

Absolutely buzzing. If you could harness rage as an energy source, Frank Carter would be a fucking generator. The Rattlesnakes ended the set with “I Hate You” which is a beautifully angry, hateful, sweary ode to loathsome idiots. Glorious. Brought an absolute swell of delight to my heart.

There was no way that anyone was going top that for me, and I wandered off in a bit of a haze. Obviously the other stages were still running a bit behind schedule, because I was able to catch the end of Reel Big Fish, who should have finished before Frank Carter.

Reel Big Fish

Reel Big Fish

Anti-Flag were due to be on at 21:15 but I decided that given that my evening had already peaked, plus potential rail problems, I’d rather make sure I got back to Euston and make my way home a bit earlier.  I got out the front of the building and realised that this was probably where I should have gotten off of the bus on the way here…

The clues were subtle.

The clues were subtle.

Straightforward trip back to Euston, where I bagged a couple of ciders for the trip home – which was remarkably smooth, with none of the delays I had been anticipating. On the journey back, there was a notification on Twitter that Frank Carter & the Rattlesnakes are playing at Dingwalls, Camden, in November… tickets go on sale Wednesday morning at 10am…

Well, it would be rude not to!