Pitchfork

My Nokia triple- beeped like a garbage truck backing up right in the tender part of "Hush" when Gwen Paltrow is in the park with her shirtless boytoy. Damn it, Pitchfork! They always call at my most private moments.

"Brent, this is Ryan. I need you to fly to London to review the new Black Grape. ASAP."
"Whatever, duce."
"And watch the expense account this time. Massages are not comped by Pitchfork."
"Whatever."

I arrived at London Gatwick and took the train up to Victoria Station. Then I hopped on the Tube to Tower Bridge. The club was a mile walk south of the Thames in an old warehouse district. The Black Grape CD was waiting with the DJ, as per my request. Kids outside were screaming for my autograph. I forgot to take off my Pitchfork Satin Jacket and I stood out. The crowd was typical. Pasty white working class girls with fried hair and clothing a couple sizes too small smacked gum and sipped bitters. Football blokes in parkas and trainers fiddled with their loop earrings, talked on cellphones, slammed black and tans, spat, head butted each other, etc. I turned on Black Grape. It was loud. It's as if four egomaniacal producers mixed each instrument. ("Oh yeah?! Well I'll make the bass line this loud!" "Y'fu'in wanka! I'll make the horns this loud!" "Bugga off! My guitars will smash y'bloody face!")

After the first few songs, it was nuts. Girls on tables, fights, vomiting, dancing everywhere. I busted out some breakdancing moves to "Squeaky" and did a wicked backspin (which was aided by a large, slick puddle of Newcastle). The football blokes raised their pints and sang along, "I wanna get cheeky wit cha! I wanna get squeaky inside ya!" Girls ran for cover. The deep bass line shook pints off tables. The music was Manchester dance/ funk/ pop/ rock. Loud, obnoxious, and perfect for the setting.

I was hung over on the flight back. I couldn't remember much of the album so I put it on the Virgin Atlantic complimentary headphone walkman. It kinda sucked. It was too loud, silly, and it's nothing the Happy Mondays hadn't already done better. But man, it rocked the house the night before. I guess it's only the kind of thing you'd enjoy in the company of 100+ drunk people. Stupid Stupid Stupid will be on every Northern Britain steeltown jukebox in weeks. And that's where it belongs. Every band has it's niche. Black Grape is soggy, smokey, party, hip-hop britpop for FA Premiership Cup stadium time-outs.