Friday, 30th July 2010 • posted by Ian Shearer
Artwork by Will McConnell.
Johnny called me at work to ask if I was going to the Dirty DC gig in the Empire last week. I told him of course fucking of course, I was going. He then told me that my usual shtick about getting shitty drunk and rocking out is getting old, and I should at least try and make these things more relevant to the rest of the Bandwidth site. I told him no problem – all I would need is a backstage press pass and an exclusive interview with the singer from Ajenda and by God I’d write the best piece of local music journalism since whatever Will did last. He said he’d see what he could do, and put the phone down. Content that my ingenious and devious plan was in action, I laughed my best ’haw, haw, haw’ sort of evil laugh, and went back to the dishes, since my boss was due back soon.
Before the end of my shift Johnny called back and okayed my idea. He had a date lined up for me, but told me if I wanted to do an interview I’d have to line it up myself. I almost shat myself with excitement.
‘Hey boss lady,’ I shouted across the shop.
‘Yes Ian?’
‘You can stick your job,’ I said, ’I’m onto a piece that’s gonna break me into the big time!’ I threw my apron at her and stormed out, throwing up the horns at the queue of gob-smacked customers. Unfortunately my badass exit was spoiled slightly when I had to duck back in again to get my Neil Diamond CD.
The night of the gig I pulled on my dancing boots, had a few crafty slugs of Jack and headed off into town. When I got to The Empire I realised I had forgotten the list of questions I had prepared for the interview, so I ordered up a shot and a brew and tried to remember what they were. Looking at them now I realise they wouldn’t have been much help anyway. In an obvious drunken scrawl it reads COMPLIMENT HER (underlined so heavily in red that I actually scored through the paper), EXAGGERATE POSITION AT BANDWIDTH, and DON’T GET TOO DRUNK. It then says something about hair, that even I can’t really make out. My only guess is that it was a memo to myself to get a haircut. Anyway as tends to happen, one shot and a brew became two, and then three, before I went upstairs to the music hall to get a good seat. Somehow I always arrive at these things either too late to even get near the bar, or so early I have to sit for hours staring at an empty stage. This night I was early and, unfortunately, that meant more drinking. I seemed to be drinking alone for a long time before the hall really filled up, and with the support act way overdue I was itching to do some rocking. I was already head banging half-assedly in my chair to Crazy Nights by Kiss and sneaking glances at a fucking knockout who was… well… propped up on the bar ordering a drink. Then she caught me looking and gave me a puzzled look. Bugger. She got her beer and started walking towards me. I almost shat myself with fear. I necked the whiskey and before she could say a word blurted out,
‘Sorry I wasn’t staring at you. It was the guy behind you. Looked like he had something… growing out of his head. It was just his hair. Which technically is growing out of his head, I suppose, but what I mean was I wasn’t actually looking at your tits. You, I mean. Not that your tits aren’t worth looking at. Just…’
And luckily she cut me off, ‘It’s okay, I don’t wear this top so people will notice my shoes.’ I was speechless, so I took a long pull at my beer. She didn’t go away. ‘And since I’m supposed to be here with you, I think it’s okay for you to check out my tits.’ No. Fucking. Way.
‘Johnny set you up with me?’ I asked.
‘Yep.’
‘I’m going to kiss that man. Right on the mouth.’ That made her laugh, and when she giggled, they jiggled, and I almost wept.
When the band finally came on it wasn’t Ajenda at all, but Dirty DC themselves. I can only guess that something came up, because there was no explanation as to why they didn’t play. That’s not going to stop me mentioning them, though, because honestly I was as excited to see them as I was to see Dirty DC. I first saw Ajenda last year at, incidentally, a Dirty DC gig in The Empire. Since then I’ve been trying to make it to one of their own shows, but something always got in the way. I really don’t think I have ever been as knocked out by a local band as I was by Ajenda. Their sound is right up my street – hooky, guitar-driven rock with, crucially, dynamite vocals. I like a fairly broad range of music but I will always have a soft spot for anything that makes me bop my head and involuntarily form a fist with my right hand. Shit, I was at an AC/DC tribute gig, this much should be clear. I was fucking disappointed that I didn’t get to see them again, but I’ll make it to a show some day. Until then I have their EP, which is excellent, and which you can listen to on their MySpace page. You can do that right after you finish reading this. As for Dirty DC, well the best advertisement for them would have been a photo of me after the gig. But since nobody should ever have to look at a photo of me – especially in that state – I’ll settle for letting you know I was drunk, sweaty, deaf and generally loving life. As faithful as the band are to AC/DC’s sound, it’s really the energy of the original band that they mimic so well. It’s no mean feat to match Angus Young for sheer balls out, blistering rocking, but this guy does, and does it well. And a bunch of dudes having that much fun playing unashamedly simple, badass rock n roll is a joy to behold. Since they’ve been here two years in a row I’m guessing Dirty DC should be a regular fixture at The Empire. Next time they’re here, don’t waste your Saturday night in some godforsaken nightclub. Go and have your balls rocked off.
It was a breath of fresh air, not having to steal covert glances at the chick’s cleavage.
[Editor’s Note: You don’t even know her name, do you?]
[Ian: Don’t interrupt me man, I’m wrapping this shit up.]
The band appeared to take full advantage of her generosity and spent a good amount of time staring themselves. Angus even gave me a sly wink, acknowledging that he was impressed by my impeccable taste in women. At the end of the gig the singer kissed her hand and the bassist gave her a pick, which delighted her. When we parted ways she said we should meet up again some time, but in my drunken, breast-fixated state I didn’t even realise I didn’t have a name or a number. I’m still waiting on Johnny to get back to me with her contact details.
[Johnny: No way. Take a look at those rules you wrote for yourself - see what you did wrong.]
Damn it, you’re right. I still need a haircut.
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