Yeah, I know…..
What’s Devizine coming to when I back out of a full night of live music? But with jam-packed weekends ahead, general fatigue and, like Suggs, sometimes I like to stay in and watch TV now and then, please allow my lethargy some slack, people. Britain’s Got Talent’s non-offensive new look of letting every idiot through was wearing thin by the second act, and I ventured off for a pint. Wasn’t a great deal to wet this lightweight’s appetite anyways, save George Wilding down the Owl, and of course, if you’re ever stuck for a weekend evening’s entertainment, the Southgate is the guaranteed safe bet in the Vizes.
Yet it’s walking up that Dunkirk Hill which drains enthusiasm, so steep Churchill pulled the troops out. Fine, it is, to roll back down at the end with a bellyful of cider navigating me off-route down Browfort, as it did last weekend, and perhaps it was this occurrence which avowed the need to drive.
I knew Nerve Endings were booked; knew they had a support, and still I epically failed, but was impressed with what I did perchance to witness, and thus prepared to draft a little something about that. Yep, the Southgate rocked again, and I know, you know, Mike, Luke and Rob will make a grand, and loud job of it. On bass and vocals, Rob McKelvey and brilliant drummer from the valley, Luke Bartels really add the extra dimension to Mike Barham, if he ever needed one; shame I shirked it.
But Patrick Goodenough, who kicked off the proceedings with a solo debut of stripped back songs from his band, The Compact Pussycat, was indeed more than good enough, as his name suggests. There was emotion and sentiment in his performance, and popping his solo act virginity, with added banter of band-member Jack Moore floating around, he should be highly commended.
Following this, Salisbury three-piece, Soapbox came to kick-ass. Proclaiming it was their heaviest song to date, they blasted out an introduction called “Problems,” and thus was the general theme of these lively and edgy, punk-inspired, rock n roll originals.
Acutely written shards of anarchy and virtue, they packed attitude and were delivered ferociously yet responsively, a tune called Rollercoaster, for example, cliché life metaphor perhaps, but delivered with passion and enthusiasm. There was an acceptable Iggy Pop in them, The Rabbit Ear perhaps the most poignant, and the final lambast, Shut the Fuck Up, the most direct.
I nodded approval as the bass player packed away, telling me though they’d sporadically been together as a band in the past, this incarnation has only been on the circuit a year. With this in mind, excusing myself doing the need-a-wee dance, Soapbox is defo one to watch out for. Good choice Mr B, apologies for my slackness!
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