Some bands aren’t real. This is list of a few of them. Some of these fictional bands went on to be real bands, some of these real bands went on to be fictional. I can’t remember who did what – that’s your homework.

10. Eyeball Paul

well mental

Everyone’s favourite “rinsing geezer” – Eyeball Paul epitomized the decadent lifestyle of a famous Ibiza DJ – Bog-clogger extraordinaire and ocular-imbibing enthusiast, his bare faced arrogance to his biggest fans is something that fictional musicians the world over can aspire to. “How’s your mummy ginger pubes?” – the voice of a generation.

9. Zack Attack

Wanker

‘Friends forever/ We’ll be friends forever’  - A timeless message that stands tall in the face of adversity, you must certainly agree. This fictional group of fictional friends from a fictional school in a fictional country  had it all – in the lead singer Zack’s head that is. Yes, this band were so fictional they didn’t even appear in the cohesive narrative of the Saved By the Bell storylines. They appeared in an episode which was set in the protagonist’s dreams, the mentalist. One wonders where the ‘friends forever’ ethos was when Dustin Diamond aka Screech was forced to make a porno just to make ends meet; although with a name like Dustin Diamond, it seemed like an obvious enough career path.

8. The Marvin Berry Four

Stoned to bits, trying to talk into his bloody hand

Thank your lucky stars that jive talkin’ Marv had the foresight to realise the potency of Marty’s ‘rock n’ roll riff in B  from the future’, otherwise Chuck Berry would just be another nobody with the best the name in the world.  He mightn’t have comprehended the complexities of the paradoxical head-melting phone call but he acted on his gut instinct, his thought process entirely uninhibited by the reefer he was seen smoking in the car with his bandmates earlier.

7. The Commitments

Deep seeded urban decay

‘They Had Absolutely Nothing. But They Were Willing To Risk It All’ - A tag-line that means nothing, but is willing to allude to it all. It should really have said ‘A bunch of knackers waste their time because a gobby knacker charmed them’. It’s strange though, The Commitments couldn’t get their act together in the fictional world so they broke through the fourth wall in spectacular fashion and engaged the audience by becoming a real, moderately successful soul band. Not a looker among ‘em though.

6. California Dreams

We’re from different backgrounds, but hey WHO CARES!? LOL

A band with no such problem in the aesthetics department were fresh faced west-coasters ‘California Dreams’. these surf dudes with attitudes were kinda groovy indeed. They had sky above and sand below, not to mention good vibrations – all of which were laid out in possibly the best theme song of any sitcom.
Another band that were an inspiration, their lack of ethnic discrimination was commendable: Season three had THREE  ethnic minorities, not to mention a punk from the wrong side of the tracks working for the money grabbing middle class white boy. I salute you, Sly Winkle.

5. Stillwater

The genital warts were thriving on that bus

You know you are a good rock n’ roll band when Led Zeppelin steal your riffs, your nonsensical song ideas (Fever Dog/Black Dog anyone?) and even steal the best thing you ever said at a party and use it as their own. Robert Plant has a lot to answer for! ‘Golden God’  indeed Bob, anyone who’s anyone knows that it was axeman Russel Hammond who pontificated that gem, prick.

4. Chris Gaines

I fuckin’ love Paramore

Just when you thought the portly guitar twanging Garth Brooks couldn’t get any more annoying, he went and hit puberty. Tired of singing out the side of his mouth to thousands of people he decided to grow a tuft of alt-fluff on his bottom lip and grow an oft maligned emo-fringe for an alter-ego album.  It must’ve been a case of the emperors new clothes within Brooks’/Gaines’ entourage, because no-one pointed out he was being an absolute idiot. Whoever let that ball bag into Croke Park needs to have a serious word with themself.

3. The Shitty Beatles

All you need is shit.

Tiny: Wanye! How you doin’?

Wayne Campbell: Hey Tiny, who’s playing today?
Tiny: Jolly Green Giants and the Shitty Beatles.
Wayne Campbell: Shitty Beatles? Are they any good?
Tiny: They suck!
Wayne Campbell: Then it’s not just a clever name.

I refuse to adhere to the notion that the Shitty Beatles were as bad as Tiny claims. I’m basing this on the fact that he claims ‘Crucial Taunt’ can ‘really wail’. Balls, they were all right at best, and wouldn’t have got half as far if they didn’t have smokin’ fox Cassandra giving it loads at the front.

2. Spinal Tap

its not fuckin barbershop

Purveyors of the redundant qualifier- (Tonight I’m Gonna Rock you Tonight), this little known rock n’ roll group made the cliche their own – so much so every band interview since the release of ‘Spinal Tap’ almost invariably mentions a ‘Spinal Tap’ moment in the career, a heightened moment of bathos which puts the ridiculous nature of the rock n’ roll lifestyle in stark perspective.  My own particular Spinal Tap moment was when I woke up in the middle of the night screaming, realising my dreams of becoming a musician were dying with every passing day. Oh how I laughed.

1. The Wonders

Five wankers blocking my path to Liv

A shock entry at number one this, but I’ll stick by it. What other band can you name that was managed by the most affable man in Hollywood (Not Bill Murray, Tom hanks – though they should really battle it out for that title) , and what other band can you name were not one, but two of the members have an ould grope at Liv Tyler. LIV TYLER! that’s what it’s all about – that’s the only reason anyone ever anywhere has ever joined a band, because it increases their possibility of getting closer to her. I know that’s why I did anyway. She looks like she’d smell class.

* I am aware that my grasp on fiction and reality in this article is somewhat blurred.

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Artwork by Will McConnell

This was supposed to be a review of The Undertones gig at Mandela Hall last Saturday.  I even had a ticket.  I had such a bad hangover though (that’s right – at 8pm, the next day) I couldn’t face the loud music and crowds, so I just went to a cocktail party I had been invited to.  I figured a few nice strong cocktails would either kill me or straighten me right out, so I took a chance.  Turns out the very thing I needed was a Manhattan (my stupid title might make sense now, but from here on in there will be no references to dogs or Manhattan.  That’s just how I roll.)

So there I was, vowing with every sip to take it easy, and surrounded by beautiful women dressed in classy 50’s styling and it struck me that maybe my overindulgence the previous night had actually finished me off and I had found my way to heaven.  Of course I wasn’t in heaven, but if one day I do go, and it’s not exactly like that party, I don’t figure I’ll hang around very long.  The party started out the way all good cocktail parties do – fancy food, Bobby Darin playing, sophisticated conversation and, of course, delicious drinks.  It also ended the way all good cocktail parties end – at 4am with a few stragglers scavenging the empties for dregs, and some guy passed out on the stairs.  Somewhere along the way – my promises of abstinence drowned in bourbon – a couple of guys showed up already half smashed.  One had an acoustic guitar, the other had fifteen bottles of beer.  They had been out busking for charity and the results had been fairly poor, so they hit the pub and then headed back to the party.  I got talking to them both about the sorry state of busking on our streets and hey voila, our conversation inspired this article.

[Editor’s Note: No Ian, you getting totally fucked up and missing the gig is what inspired this article.]

Sometimes I hate walking through the streets in Belfast.  It can just be a depressing place to be.  People rushing from shop to shop, crossing the street any old time they please – dodging buses like it wasn’t potentially fucking lethal – and trampling anyone too slow-moving to keep up.  It’s no wonder I so often duck into a pub for a pint to calm my jangled nerves.  But I’m concentrating on the negatives here, as I so often do, and my conversation with the musicians highlighted this for me.

Think about it.  In a street bustling with ignorant shoppers, droning with the sound of traffic and smelling like one big recently-pissed-in alley, there are actually people who stand there just to play music.  Music!  Was there ever a more beautiful metaphor for the light in the darkness?  Just a guy…

[Editor’s Note: Or gal.]

…his guitar, and enough balls to sing in front of everybody.   And was there ever a more apt metaphor for human apathy than the fact that nearly all of us just ignore these guys?  Like they’re standing in the street trying to sign you up for a credit card or something.  In a world of noise, a rare few go out and play something that sounds nice, and no one gives a shit.  Seems like a damn shame to me.  Seems like a fucking crime when the guy in question has a banner saying he’s collecting for charity.  I mean even if you’re as sick of hearing Wonderwall as I am, throw the guy 50p for a good cause.  Am I wrong?

Hell, I know I’m preaching to the choir.  You are reading this site because you like and support local music, so you’re probably also the people cool enough to have dropped some change into a guitar case once or twice.  And it’s not like I’m walking the streets of Belfast throwing money at every busker I pass.  But when you hear some guy…

[Editor’s Note: Or gal.]

…and you’re impressed by their voice, or they’re playing a song you love that never gets played on the radio, or shit, even if it’s raining and they just look wet and lonely, throw in a couple of coins.  Trust me, they’ll appreciate it, because 99% of people just won’t bother, and it’s really a much tougher gig than most people think.

In a world where people can make six figure salaries hawking insurance, it only seems right that a guy…

[Editor’s Note: Or gal.]

[Ian: Shut the fuck up man!]

…should be able to make a few quid playing the musical equivalent of seeing a pretty girl in a summer dress.  It may only last a moment, but on these sad, grey streets, it’s still gotta be worth something.

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The Frigates were first brought to my bright attention by the enthusiasm of one Steven Rainey. Inspired by a love of Pavement and all things lo-fi, the flame haired reporter shared his findings with us late last year in this article for Bandwidth.

This is In Stores Now, after all – so we were luck on a busy Saturday in Belfast to find 3 accommodating stores – firstly the record fair at Bandwidth’s alama mater, the Oh Yeah Music Centre. Then to two distinctly… nautically themed locales. Let’s see if you can spot the irony of it all.

Since then things have moved apace. The band got in touch to arrange a session – I love everything about them – and before you could say 10 Downing Street a partnership was made.

Download for iPod (29.4 MB)

Download for iPod (42.4 MB)

Download for iPod (76.3 MB)

Filmed by Will McConnell in Belfast, March 2010

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Here’s the second collaboration between Bandwidth and State Magazine – which we call “State Intervention”.

State Intervention is a series of flash gigs organised around Ireland. Again, all the gigs are free, and you’ll be able to come along to any one of them by keeping up to date with State’s twitter and facebook feeds, where the gig will be anounced on the day.

Without further ado, here’s Scroobius Pip.

Read all about it here on State.ie.

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Artwork by Will McConnell

Little known fact: my adventures are not written from memory.  I actually have a small team of reporters who follow me around and document the events of the night and I just embellish their notes with my winning prose.  This is so I don’t have to ruin my night by staying sober enough to recall specificities, and also to look after me in case something horrible happens.  They’re all trained in things like first aid, basic law, mixed martial arts, and advanced sandwich making, so that all of my basic needs can be taken care of at the drop of a hat.  Unfortunately, no one in my entourage knows Mark Lanegan and I couldn’t convince any of them to go to his gig in The Empire last week.  No problem, I thought, I’ll just call Johnny and have him arrange me a date.

‘Hey Johnny I need a date.  Wednesday.  8pm.  Mark Lanegan.  This one should be cool.’
‘Who the hell is Mark Lanegan?’
‘He’s a cool singer songwriter.  Used to be in Screaming Trees.  Real deep voice, like “uuurrrrggggghhhh….’

[Editor’s Note: I deleted four lines of ‘uurrrggghhh’.]

‘Jesus, enough.  Look I don’t think I’m gonna be able to set you up,’ said Johnny.
‘What?  Why not?’
‘Because your last date got trampled to death Ian.  Interest has kind of dropped off.’
‘Shit, yeah.  Michioku.  How was the funeral?’
‘It was a barrel of laughs Ian.  Singing, dancing, great food.  It was a fucking funeral, how do you think it was?’
‘No need to get snippy with my Johnny.’
‘Well you weren’t the one trying to fend off 23 Japanese schoolgirls, crying and asking “Why, why?”’
‘That sounds kinda hot actually.’
‘I’m hanging up Ian.’
‘Any of those schoolgirls still in town man?’  Dial tone.  Shit.

A couple of days later I went to see The Disappearance Of Alice Creed and I had a fucking great idea.  I should go home and look at nude pictures of Gemma Arterton online.  Three hours later I was spent, lying in bed with a cold beer, and I realised I still didn’t have anyone to go to the show with.  I decided fuck it, I would go alone.

I do this quite a lot, actually.  People think I’m weird, and they’re right, but my attitude is that if I want to see a show I’m gonna go regardless of whether or not anyone wants to come with me.  I don’t see why me having a good time should be dependent on other people, hence my oft-quoted catchphrase: ‘why compromise?’, which I hope someone inscribes on my grave stone.  Anyway, I go to the movies alone all the time and I quite often end up going to gigs alone too.  If you should ever be unfortunate enough to see me at a gig, standing off to one side with a surly look on my face, a beer in one hand and a whiskey in the other, come on over and say hello.  If you say something nice I promise I’ll buy you a drink.  Of course that’s an easy promise to make since probability-wise, this is very, very unlikely to happen.  I should also advise extreme caution – surly people who are drunk on whiskey are rarely friendly – I am the exception.

[Editor’s Note: Friendly?  Ha!]
[Ian: Shut the fuck up, Ed.  I’m the friendliest person I know.]

Anyway I know a lot of you expect certain formalities from these things, so I should really say something about the Mark Lanegan gig.

[Editor’s Note: Don’t let us put you to any trouble.]

Luckily it was just my little circle of friends and acquaintances who didn’t know Mark Lanegan and the Music Hall was totally sold out.  The first dude to come on was Duke Garwood, who was a cool character.  I couldn’t make out half of what he said but he kept referring to ‘death country’, which sounds like the greatest music genre of all time.  I liked his music – a sort of cut down, experimental sounding blues – and his songs often ended abruptly, without warning, which kept me alert despite the combined efforts of Stella and Jack.  Then Lanegan came on, launched right into the set list, and his voice blew a fucking Marshall stack deep down in my soul.  He must have the best voice I’ve ever had the privilege of hearing live – deep, deep grumbling tones but loud and almost impossibly strong – an all too uncommon combination.  I immediately regretted giving that busker a quid on my way to the show because all of a sudden, he just didn’t seem worthy.  Lanegan is a no nonsense kind of dude and he ploughed through the set list with a velocity I just couldn’t keep up with, drinks wise.  I guess either that’s just his style, or he had a hotel room, a bottle of whiskey and three groupies to get back to.  Either way, other than the occasional ‘thank you’ there wasn’t too much interaction with the audience, which would have been nice.  I like to savour a show, and my whiskey, which I couldn’t pour down fast enough.  It’s not a serious grievance though, and I was thoroughly enjoying the music, despite not knowing any of it.  He’s a great lyricist, as well as having a fucking awesome voice, and his dark, sparse brand of acoustic blues went down a treat, both with me and with everyone else in the place.  The applause after each song bled into the beginning of the next, and then everyone was quiet, listening very carefully and quietly, drinking in every word.  As Lanegan was taking the stage some crazed loon had screamed ‘Give us hell!’, and I feel fairly confident in saying that guy went home satisfied.  The show didn’t seem very long, but he got through a good number of songs and did a cool encore, and I guess what they say about how time flies is right, because when the lights went up I was still fairly sober, and didn’t even mind.  I went downstairs to continue my drinking thing, spurred on by Lanegan’s darkened croonings.

I decided to finish up the night in Annie’s, and I don’t remember much after getting there.  I remember that the barmaid was beautiful and I remember feeling like Tom Waits, sitting alone in a quiet bar at midnight, full on whiskey and the blues.  I can’t have been that drunk, though, because I also remember being painfully aware that I’m nothing like Tom Waits and I was probably creeping the barmaid out.  So, dear barmaid – I apologise if I was leering.  And dear readers, I apologise for boring the tits off you.  I didn’t quite do this thing justice.

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