The Retro Spankees/Winston Echo/The Bobby McGees/Das Wunderlust/Larry Pickleman
The Free Butt, Brighton

Words meander fitfully. Words leap and laugh around, caustic in their indignation. Faces flurry past, an ice storm of blurred memories and irritating cigarette smoke. I can’t recall the last time I had so much rare fun. I can’t recall the last time I watched four-and-a- half-bands from the front section of the Butt. I can’t recall much, actually – which may account for my continuing enthusiasm. I have few comparison points, little context.

Larry Pickleman transports me back to that squat in New Cross Road where ‘ranting’ poets such as Seething Wells and the (annoying, even then) Ben Elton would hold court, splendid in their sardonic anger. Mr Pickleman draws upon the odd sample of noise, Guinness, a store of stories concerning his three children – mostly along the lines of “Go to school, they say/Or you’ll be a FOOL, they say” and is so ebullient, so good-natured it’s all I can do to stop myself from leaping on stage and joining in as a human fret-box. Guitar bites, like Joe Strummer. Words hurt, like Courtney. “Ah, but you would like it,” the Irishman says afterwards. “You’re an old fucker like me.” True, but he makes me feel young again.

Das Wunderlust leap up and down, up and down, sending out spiteful shreds of emotion and break-up material, arguing vociferously with other Middlesborough sorts in the audience, the keyboard clashing and hiccupping loudly…far more early punk-disco Bis than Help She Can’t Sing, which is a fucking relief: far more Valerie than vanity; not serious enough to merit attention in the ‘proper’ music press doubtless, but again this is a relief. They charm, and smile, and bounce, and swap instruments – or do they? Maybe they just sound like that. Music as comforting and sticky as an ice cream on a hot summer’s day: no, really.

The Bobby McGees leave me flummoxed: a ripped-out tooth necessitated way too much alcohol consumption on the part of Mr McGee himself (smart shoes, suit, beard, strong Glaswegian accent) as he strums his ukulele and mostly tries to rile the audience. His companion (demure, flower-pattern dress, ukulele) looks on disdainful in her punk rock librarian glasses as he takes audience members to task over their Converse footwear – “I’ll get back to you later,” he barks at one: later includes a shoe being hurled on stage in response to a new number called “I Fucking Hate Converse”. The songs are absolutely charming, twee-r than Uncle Twee’s simpering elder brother Joe Twee McTwee Twee Top – ‘Please Don’t Dump Me’ (the title repeated over and over again), ‘No Friends’ (“I’ve got no friends…not one…”). It’s all in the delivery. Simultaneously antagonistic and heartrending and dumb, The Bobby McGees are purest essence of C86, distilled and with a thousand early BMX Bandits bootlegs clutched to their hearts.

Emily claims they’re “too twee”. That would be Emily, twee-est person I know in Brighton saying that. Whoa. Now there’s a compliment.

Winston Echo looks like a very nervous Frank Black, alone up there on stage, frantically strumming away at his acoustic and exhorting us all to shut the fuck up: his nervousness communicates itself as charm. He stops a number, forgets words, starts another, takes requests, sings pitiful and lonely songs about dole life, falls in love with someone on the Bureau de Change desk, hopes they notice him, strums some more, words nearly lost in his earnestness. I’d say he was a nascent English version of Daniel Johnston, if that wasn’t too obvious – or a Noughties Clive Pig.

I love to compare people to Clive Pig, cos no one knows what the fuck I’m on about.

I miss the Retro Spankees, mostly: they seem excellent, they have a song that may or may not be named after a near neighbour of Brighton, they bounce up and down with even more alacrity than Das Wunderlust – but lose points for having fewer female members – and they too have keyboards, and sound like they grew up grooving to the unfettered fun of Bis. They too are similar to Help She Can’t Sing, only THEY’RE FUN. The drummer presses two copies of their album into my hand, the childishly gleeful I Know You Are But What Am I? What, in case I lose the first? I’m most glad he does though, because now I have – to quote Dickon – a secret crush on the fourth trombone. I absolutely fucking LOVE this music, and want all five acts to reprise this entire show, in my front room, six weeks from now, recorded on four-track, no arguing.

And this time, I promise. I’ll pay even fuller attention.

Posted on Thursday, February 16th, 2006by Everett True