Proper Charlies
Who'd be in a band? Not me. Except the one I'm in, of course.
But you wouldn't want to be in another one. All those men, for a start. The fart soup in the back of the transit, like being stuck in the trenches of World War War One with a bloke who just wants to talk about Geddy Lee. The tedium of sound-checking. Watching other, terrible bands, playing better than you do, while you bide your time, supping a pint at the bar, refusing to nod. The fragrant disappointment of playing live: dry ice, gaffa tape and acid reflux. The granite block gulag that is the average practice room. The delicate negotiation of raging egos in a confined space. The hiring, the firing, the getting to know you-ing. The shit ideas you have to listen to. The shitheads telling you your ideas are shit. The demo that sounded so good in your head. The parts are good, but why are we so much less than them? The bad mixes. The Good Mixer. Being ignored by the ignorant. The indifference. The protractor shaped wedge of visible dance floor every time you play. The cuticle of suspicion. Someone drops a pint, but no shout goes up because it's plastic.
It's rubbish.
At least that's what I think, jaded old fart that I am. I've done my time capering nimbly under the arc lights.
But not these guys. Not The Charlemagnes. These guys are heroes. They love it. Why, most of them are even older than I am. Does that stop them? No way. A quick slap of Voltarol on the lower back, and that impacted shoulder muscle and, well, everywhere really. A quick fumble for the right pair of glasses, and you're facing the right way, unless soliciting feedback from a Marshall stack. It may be the best feedback you get all evening, but does that matter?
No.
It does not matter.
What matters is getting down to the noise and confusion. What matters is this din, this clamour, this unholy uproar. The Charlemagnes are tight, compacted, dense as star matter, and as heavy. They're expulsive, in all directions at once, a second Big Bang, a practiced Big Bang, a Big Bang perfected. They're a controlled explosion. They put the shits up your pets and Guy Fawkes.
Their lyrics may be palpable nonsense - what is a 3D Gun, anyway? - but they mean them, man. Marty Jnr pulls them like salt taffy, a strange emphasis here, a pointed elision there. He lands on each word like an athlete dismounting parallel bars, applauding himself in a little cloud of chalk dust.
These songs are big and loud and dumb and smart at the same time. They also rock, or my name isn't John Patrick Higneus.
Listen to them. Now. Seriously, these songs are a shit ton of fun.
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