Confessions of a Roller Derby Novice

Firstly, an apology to my regular readers. Without a weekly hockey match to force me to keep to some sort of schedule my time-keeping is all over the place, and this report comes well over a week late, so yes, sorry about that, bad blogger. I shall administer repeated slaps to my own face in repentance. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

But anyway. Did you know, it’s been a whole seven months since I’ve reviewed a new sport! How very lax of me. It was all because I found out there WAS no professional tiddlywinks league in North Shields and I was disillusioned for a while, but fear not: I intend to remedy the situation by telling you all about last weekend’s trip to a roller derby bout in Walker. Who knew I would ever speak those words?

For those of you not familiar with the Tyne and Wear area, let me describe Walker for you. You know that feeling when you’re in the middle of describing your drunken weekend exploits to your office colleages, complete with actions and relevant colourful language, and your boss walks in? That cold, deathly feeling as all the air leaves the room, like the life has been sucked out of it? Welcome to Walker. It’s a happiness vacuum. And it’s one of those places where regardless of the exterior temperature, you close your car windows and lock down the doors, and pray you don’t run over a well-placed rock in the road before reaching your final destination.

Yes, it’s a joy to behold, as is the not-very-aptly-named Lightfoot Centre that has landed within the Walker area like a prop UFO from a 70’s sci-fi B movie, its corrugated tin domed exterior as much a highlight of the local area as it would be a blot on the landscape of any more average residential neighbourhood. We entered the building with more than a little trepidation and discussed the distinct possibility that roller derby could be a front for the Scientologist rally it seemed more likely would be taking place in such a peculiar architectural wonder.

More impressive then our surroundings once seated in the auditorium; the domed ceiling concealed a wooden roof within it reminiscent of old-fashioned American sports hall and it was surprisingly packed to the rafters with numerous fans of women on roller skates (well, who wouldn’t be one?). The event was inventively but somewhat mystifyingly for us novices named ‘Sweet Home Alajammer’. We took our seats in the balcony area just in time for the B team bout, which featured the second string skaters from the competing sides, Newcastle Roller Girls and Leicester’s Dolly Rockit Rollers. Prior to the competition there was a cute skit in which the girls faced off, Wild West style, before the action began. Helpfully, the announcer kindly explained the rules of roller derby before the bout kicked off, which was useful as I hadn’t a clue what to expect other than a vague memory of the goings-on in that film ‘Whip It’ with that girl what was really good in Juno and Drew Barrymore being quite scary. As I later discovered there was also a handy section in the front of the programme explaining things more clearly. As an aside I’d like to complement the girls on the quality of the programme itself, which contained collections of photos of all the participants and was also free – a nice touch.

So roller derby then. Let’s cover the basics. It’s played by women. On roller skates. Wearing hotpants and tights and named a variety of menacing and/or amusing tongue-in-cheek things such as Penelope Hitstop, Whippi Longstocking and Bettie Basher. Oh, and there’s an awful lot of jam.

Girls on skates. Preparing to use one another as missiles. Sweet.

Photo reproduced courtesy of Idene Roozbayani

The rules then? In short, there are five team members in play at any one time. Four of them are essentially there to block, and one is the points-scorer or ‘jammer’ (see I told you there was a lot of jam), who tries to get round the track and pass as many of the opposing team members as possible ahead of the opposing teams’ jammer, ably assisted by the pack and hindered as much as possible by the opposing team’s pack. Are you with me? It sounds simple enough – bordering on basic even – but throw in some frenetic hand signals, some hilarious hip-checking and shoulder barges, plenty of American-style line changes and the distraction of the various outfits on display and you realise there’s a lot more to roller derby than just a selection of slightly terrifying women with wheels strapped to their feet.

The B team brawl seemed a bit all over the place but in reality I think it was a combination of new team members finding their feet in the sport and new spectators with less than a speck of a clue to rub together about what was going on that probably caused the confusion. OK, maybe a slight hangover and the pounding dance music in my ears may also have had something to do with it. It’s a lively atmosphere, that’s for sure. All in all, it gave me a sort of warm, fuzzy feeling in my stomach, once again not knowing what the hell was going on at a sport to which I was a spectator. Ah, happy memories.

Sadly for the home team, Leicester’s Free Birds won the B team bout. The main event followed shortly afterwards. In the break we admired the Newcastle Roller Girls' A team, the Canny Belters, dressed to the nines in smart black uniforms with various adornments and war paint, running a rather impressive looking warm-up before taking to the track for a warm-up skate. There was a similarly well-staged Wild West-themed pre-game skit and then the stand-off commenced. The difference in quality was plain and some of the skaters had real finesse and quite a turn of pace. We started to grasp the rules and it became more exciting as the contest unfolded. The first period went in favour of the visitors, their jammer, Gob Stop’her, one of the fastest skaters of the day, racking up lots of points and leaving the Canny Belters trailing at half time. The whole thing was quite well-orchestrated and we started to grasp the tactical plays which were more subtle than you might imagine from a group of women trying to barge each other off their feet with their hips. The blockers (is that the right word, I’ve already forgotten?!) work as a team, moving collectively to obstruct the opposing jammer and then seamlessly dropping away to let their own jammer pass. I even witnessed girls using each other as weapons, launching one another into opposing players to clear them from the track to make way for their jammer. Nice!

This girl means business. So does the other one. You'd better watch out!

Photo reproduced courtesy of Idene Roozbayani

The guys get involved too, taking roles as referees, coaches and announcers, and it seems that soon there will even be an opportunity for them to get their skates on and take part in an all-male version of the sport, rather disturbingly named ‘merby’. I’ll be intrigued to see how that one turns out.

In terms of interestingly named sections of gameplay, I was thankful to find that a ‘powerjam’, rather than being a particularly concentrated variety of fruit preserve designed to give extra kick to your breakfast croissant, was actually something I could latch onto rules-wise, reminiscent as it is of the ice hockey powerplay, in which the opposition lose their jammer to a penalty allowing the other jammer to have free reign and rack up as many points as possible. In the second period we (ooh, get me getting all possessive of another Newcastle team!) made the most of the powerjam opportunities when they arose, and we closed the gap on the Dolly Rockit Rollers and eventually took the lead. Impressive jamming displays from amongst others Marie Bayonet and Hot Whips, and Von Sleaze with an unrivalled 21 point jam put the Canny Belters in the driving seat and we showed up our opponents’ lack of strength in depth. They relied heavily on their one – admittedly excellent – jammer, but she tired towards the end and lost her legs, unable to pick up many additional points and the Newcastle Roller Girls went on to claim a 107-83 victory.

So to re-cap: women. On skates. In hotpants. With awesome names. Using each other as weapons. Hmm. I most definitely approve. On reflection, who wouldn’t want to attend a sport that actually has first aiders on hand at all times? It certainly gave me the bug and come July, I will be swapping my ice skating blades for skates of the four-wheeled variety to see what the fuss is all about. I can’t deny the thought of facing up against some of the more amply-thighed ladies fills me with a slight sense of dread, but hey, I’ve got a canny pair of hips on me myself so hopefully I’ll give as good as I get. Oh and I won the raffle! I never win anything!

So if you fancy any and/or all of the above get yourselves down to the depths of Walker in the near future. It's dark, it's dangerous, and it rocks a fine collection of short shorts. And clearly I don't just mean the questionable local area! See the Newcastle Roller Girls website for further information on upcoming bouts and getting involved! Do it NOW!

http://newcastlerollergirls.co.uk/

Now I'm off to crawl back under the rock I came from and lie dormant for another few weeks until the inaugural Whitley Bay Hamster Wheel Demolition Derby. See you there!

Exploring the Mundane: KATY P and the Alphabetti Spaghetti

So I came to the conclusion a couple of weeks back that I should probably flex my cranial muscles in the direction of something other than ice hockey just to see if they were still working, or if they’d like, crusted over, like some nasty vat of canteen custard, the beautiful fresh thoughts growing stale and cold beneath the congealed top layer of hockey-induced single-mindedness. So here was a project: write about something else for a while. I wondered what other so-called bloggers wrote about when they just felt the urge to write but didn’t have any pressing issues of the day to philosophise over. I think the ultimate nature of blogging, unless it’s topical or with some sort of purpose (ie reviews, reports, political-based conjecture etc) is the art of exploding the minutiae of daily life into glorious word-based technicolor. It’s the art of venting a spurious 500-word diatribe at a computer screen about the self-checkouts in Marks and Spencers, or why when you run for a bus, it’s invariably delayed, whereas if you’re more than a second behind schedule said bus (plus two of its buddies) will merrily fly past and proceed to quite happily ignore you as you pelt towards the bus stop at infarction-inducing pace. It’s the seemingly insignificant or meaningless things in life that some bloggers seem to cherish, expounding upon mundane follies in such detail you would imagine that simply selecting between a sweet or savoury pretzel could have some bearing on the future of the world as we know it.

So I thought, perhaps it’s time for me to try this. I was idly wondering about what such random whimsy I could spend far too many words over-analysing, and I hadn’t gotten around to wracking my poor neglected brain for more than a few minutes when it came to me, quite organically, upon debating my choice of dinner menu just the other day. I had rejected the more appealing option of an Indian takeaway, despite having craved it for a number of days, on the grounds of both money and detriment to health, but in absence of my urge to cook any elaborate dish (and by elaborate I was even including cooking some pasta and microwaving some frozen Bolognese to pour over it), combined with a lack of key ingredients, I resorted to the basics that were available to me: bread. And tinned pasta in tomato sauce, shaped like letters of the alphabet. I had in the past been an admirer in passing of the ‘O’ shaped variety of such tinned Italian snack, but this was a first. Damn Tesco and their special offers.

And so there it was on my plate. I’m not ashamed to admit it: I had alphabetti spaghetti on toast for my dinner. But it doesn’t end there. I was overly fascinated with the product on my plate and of course, I began to spell out various things with the individual shapes (never has an item of produce been so overtly contradictory to the old parental adage ‘don’t play with your food’). Well, you have to, don’t you? I spelt my name, of course. I indicated my preference of television programme (Dr Who). I marvelled at how readily available all the letters seemed to be. I had expected some letters to be completely missing, perhaps the more complicated ones for example like, I don’t know, say ‘G’ whilst expecting a surplus of ‘I’s, ‘X’s and ‘O’s (they’ve had a lot of practice at the latter, after all). However the spread of letters was fairly uniform. With one very obvious exception. There were loads, and loads, of ‘B’s.

I won’t lie to you, I noticed it when I first poured the can into the microwaveable Tupperware bowl, and all I could see were ‘B’s. I tried to ignore it, imagining that it was just coincidence. But as I moved the letters around the plate the ‘B’s kept catching my eye. Why were there so many of them? What could it all mean?! Because of course, everything means something, as we well know. Nothing at all in life can possibly just be a random event. It started to preoccupy me. B’s, B’s…. What is this tinned Heinz product trying to tell me?! Someone beginning with B could be significant in my life? I shouldn’t hate on Gareth Barry so much? I should support the Boston Bruins in the Stanley Cup play-offs (I had already chosen them over Montreal based mainly on alluring alliteration)? Perhaps Heinz are overly fond of the soulful stylings of the legendary BB King, and are undertaking a stealth advertising campaign on his behalf, trying to subconsciously influence the minds of impressionable young people and encourage them to buy his records. It’s a conspiracy! Of course. Why didn’t I think of it before? Actually maybe they’re just trying to remind us that baked beans would have been a better choice of tomato-based non-perishable to put on our toast.

But what does it all MEAN?!!

So there it was. The mystery persists with no discernable solution and I’m left wondering (a) whether my first attempt at this nonsense-blogging has been successful or not and (b) – ooooh, B!! – quite why the obviously vital importance of the letter ‘B’ in my life has not yet been revealed to me. I fear I shall have to indulge in a repeat performance of the alphabetti spaghetti-based drama in order to confirm whether or not my suspicions are correct.

Watch this space, my friends.

A mini-drama

This story is based on true events. That happened on Saturday. Any character that bears any resemblance to any person living or dead exists because it's about me. And I'm like totally a real person.

Katy got home and found an envelope on the bookcase. Just a little envelope. Plain and white and sitting there, minding its own business. It looked like your run-of-the-mill faceless printed nonsense belonging in the category of uninspiring credit card-related junkmail; perhaps at best some beseeching charity-related sales material. It took her a moment to focus her eyes on the tiny yet familiar logo on the single sheet of paper she found inside.

Look carefully, my keen-eyed cherubs. Can you tell what it is yet?

'Dude.' She cried. 'It's freaking WIMBLEDON tickets.'

Katy had assumed she would have no chance in the ticket ballot amongst the maelstrom of baying tennis hounds around the UK and indeed the world and had put it to the back of her mind but the sheet in front of her told no lies. The reality of the situation sank in.

'I'VE SCORED FREAKING WIMBLEDON TICKETS!!!!!!'

Katy cannot believe her luck. The OPENING DAY as well, that will be quite something. Think of the atmosphere! The frisson of excitement running through the veins of the thronging, strawberry-eating, Pimms-quaffing SW19 contingent; it's too mouth-watering to even contemplate! And Number 3 court! It may not be centre but it renders the chances of Katy seeing her favourite players HIGH, bearing in mind none of them rank higher than 10.

But suddenly, reality dawns. Monday 20th June. Oh god.

'That's Exam Board week!! Only the busiest and most important week of the year in my godforsaken job! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! There's no WAY work will let me take that day off.'

Quickly she rationalises... 'But - but - it's freakin' WIMBLEDON dude! I'll fake an exotic disease! I'll threaten to sue them for wrongful, er, wrongful not-letting-me-have-the-day-off-al! It's so UNFAIR!!

So. Not. Impressed. But there must be some way... The optimist within her fights and battles and...

All of a sudden her eyes zero in on a date printed towards the bottom of the letter. 07/04/11. 'When's that then?' She wonders in passing. 'That's like, next year or whatever, dude. And what does it mean, anyway? Could it be important in some way?'

The words before it read 'PAYMENT MUST BE MADE BY'.

Then it hits her.

Oh. Holy. Arsepotatoes.

That date was... Thursday. Just. Gone.

'I've missed. The cocking. Cut-off date.'

She wildly flails around for a target to slam with the full force of her blame and recrimination.

Is it because the letter arrived late, and therefore it's all Wimbledon's fault? Noooooo.

Is it because the postman somehow failed to deliver the letter, hence rendering the whole of the Royal Mail responsible, the blundering, incompetent fools? Noooooo.

Or could it be, perchance, because Katy left the envelope sitting on the bookshelf for a week because she thought it was just another tree-raping piece of pointless, needless, worthless, fetid, pollip-in-the-armpit-of-the-world junkmail?

Yes. Yes it could well be.

This tragedy was brought to you in the third person because the protagonist can't bear to inhale the filthy stench of her own putrid incompetence. Quite why she used her own name in the story she doesn't know. She really must be some kind of prize idiot.

I feel no further exposition is necessary, other than to state the clear moral of the story. I BLOODY LOVE TENNIS, ME!

Oh wait, that's not it. That's just an unfortunate fact I happen to be pretending is untrue at this present moment in order to salve the cheese-grating torment of my own gargantuan failure.

The moral of the story is in fact: OPEN YOUR ARSING MAIL, YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER IMBECILIC HALF-WIT!

This is me now:

Sorry about all the image stealery and adaptery. But thanks. That's totally correct referencing behaviour and shiz, right? Yeah, I thought so too.

Film Review: Season of the Witch

When less than two minutes into a film, your inner film critic starts composing sentences about how bad said picture is, it’s never a good sign.

The trailer for Season of the Witch suggested that it was basically going to be Nicolas Cage, being Nicolas Cage, but in medieval times. Score. Throw in the colossal visage of Ron Perlman and you are surely talking about the most kick-ass team of dudes in all of Christendom? Which is strangely appropriate, as we join the pair romping their way through the Crusades in the 1300s killing Jews and various other heathens left, right and centre. But they leave the army after suddenly growing a conscience about killing civilians (yes, because I bet they didn’t kill a single one in the previous seven years) and are eventually captured and imprisoned for desertion. Here begins our story: it’s just a shame that the prior build-up was so cringe-worthy that I’m already left cold and slumped, frowning over my popcorn.

Now don’t get me wrong. I didn’t go along expecting to see a full-scale epic quest movie, and I did expect it to be somewhat tongue-in-cheek. But there’s comedy and then there’s just terrible. The inconsistency of the comedic elements didn’t help. The entire beginning section could have been viewed as pure farce if there had been any suggestion that it would be heading in that direction, but the middle section falls flat on its face in comedy terms, masquerading instead as a tense supernatural thriller. I don’t think it helped that the motley crew of misfits undertaking the journey which constituted the bulk of the plot displayed very little in the way of depth and inspired very little in the way of empathy. The so-called witch herself prowled cat-like in her cage flashing beseeching wide eyes presumably in an attempt to prompt an 'is she or isn't she' reaction in the audience. Sadly their isn't enough of a hook and the plot bumps along the bottom of the film experience like a square wheel.

The script itself was unbelievable dross; flat, uninspired and at times wildly anachronous, it lurched painfully from faux middle English to modern day schtick. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear Cage call Perlman ‘brah’ at any time. I’ll leave specific examples out of it so as not to hamper the small amount of amusement you’ll actually get if you choose to watch the film, but suffice to say, it was way off the mark and completely off-putting.

Plus points to be drawn from this bizarre piece of film-making go to the cinematographer, who brilliantly presented the backdrop of the Austro-Hungarian wilderness in all its bleak and jaw-dropping splendour. Lots of prizes go to the make-up and costume department for their work on the pus-filled boils and the spectacular helmets, respectively. I also rather liked Nic Cage’s long curly hair. Um, what else? Well, the ending is truly hilarious. The movie finally remembers what it should have been about in the first place and having seen Ron Perlman headbutt Satan himself, I left the cinema relieved that I had been able to claw a modicum of enjoyment from the thing at all.

Rating – 1/10 if they were serious. 4/10 if they weren’t.

Newcastle to Surbiton:An Odyssey (CoverItLive Test Broadcast)

A Bit Smug and Gloaty? Yes I am, thank you very much: A Mid-Season Review of Watford FC’s 2010/11 Championship Campaign

As it’s been a little while since my last football-related blog post you’ll forgive me for indulging in a little gloating, won’t you? It’s just that, well, Watford are doing awfully well of late. We were hotly tipped for relegation at the beginning of the season, and with a relatively inexperienced manager and depleted of some of last season’s key players, with very little money to speak of to spend on any new ones, and competition from undoubtedly one of the strongest groups of opposition that the Championship has ever seen, you could understand why. Prior to kick-off back in July and August, Watford fans spoke with stars in their eyes of the possibility of reaching the dizzying heights of mid-table, and that was the absolute best we could hope for. Just to avoid the dreaded drop had to be our main aim for the season.

But then a strange thing happened. Buoyed by, amongst other things, the decision of John Eustace to remain at the club and take the captain’s armband rather than signing for rivals Leeds, and the signing of a couple of promising young players on loan, Watford started the season brightly, daring to win their opening match away at Norwich, one of the sides tipped for greatness this season. We all held our breath and wondered... Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad after all? Things levelled off a little after that though, and we all screwed our heads firmly back on after the initial flurry of excitement, and settled in for the long haul. And then, in September, it all went a bit silly again, as we had the audacity to win some more games, the highlight being a 6-1 demolishing of last season’s League 1 stars, Millwall, on their patch. We seemed to become quite good at winning away. And in Danny Graham and Marvin 'Score-dell' Sordell a strike partnership was born which had to potential to be one of the all time greats. Well, in the dreams of Watford fans it did, anyway.

There was a blip in October as I attended my first match of the season, against Scunthorpe at Vicarage Road, a miserable affair which we lost 2-0 and we’re all best off forgetting about. Sorry about that everyone, I’ll just stay oop norf in future and not get in the way of our triumphant march for glory.

And then what happened? Erm... we seemed to lose 3-2 quite a lot. Annoyingly. But it proved that we did not have any trouble finding the back of the net, an affliction which has affected us in recent seasons with varying degrees of severity; never have we seen quite such a glut of goals as we have this season, and it’s truly delightful. Malky Mackay has put together a young, exciting, adventurous and pacy side, not afraid to attack, or to be creative.

And so we dragged our heels into December on the back of a couple of dull draws, but proceeded to turn the 3-2 scoreline that had been our albatross in recent weeks to our advantage, beating Leicester at the Vic, and sparking a run of form the likes of which we couldn’t even have dreamt of before the season started. On Friday 10th December, in front of the BBC cameras, we took our bold and fearless side to the league leaders, QPR, and systematically broke them down with style and grace; it was a joy to behold. Suddenly the potential we glimpsed flashes of back in September was being writ large, and people were starting to take notice of little Watford, sneaking up the table. We continued our barn-storming run with another thrashing of a top side, beating Cardiff 4-1 at home – so that’s the top two teams beaten, in consecutive matches. Ten goals scored in the last three games. New Year’s Day? Another three goals and a clean sheet against Portsmouth, this time in front of the Sky cameras? Don’t mind if I do. Can we play on TV every week? A nice little away win at Scunthorpe brings us bang up to date, and tops off our streak at five wins on the bounce, and seven games unbeaten. If I were a statto I could probably prove we were the top side in the league form-wise, but I’m not. And I’m lazy. But I’m assuming we are!

John Eustace: Who's the Daddy? Er, I do believe it's you, sir. Pic from watfordpics.co.uk

So what now? There’s basking in reflected glory, which is always nice for a while, but we all know that nothing good lasts forever in sport, Watford fans more so than most. The bubble will burst, it simply must; it’s just of case of when, and how, and to what protracted and painful extent. Injuries have taken their toll on our already small squad; the loans of Andrew Taylor and Jordan Mutch are yet to be extended, and with the ever-ominous transfer window open, it seems just a matter of time until, in addition to the almost inevitable departure of Scott Loach to a Premiership side, others of our players may be the subject of interest from rival clubs, having doubtless attracted attention during our recent run of good form. On a lighter note, I’d wager that as a shoe-in for December’s cursed ‘honour’, the Manager of the Month award, it could be gaffer Malky Mackay who is our downfall; if it’s not from having that notorious hoodoo bestowed upon him, then it could be a case of him being tempted away from Watford, attracting interest himself recently, most notably from Alan Pardew at Newcastle, but rumours also abound linking him with the vacant managerial post at Burnley. He’s been a revelation since his period in charge began, making waves rather than ripples in the Championship pond so far this season, not afraid to play untested youngsters (in many cases it’s been down to necessity rather than boldness, but I fully believe he would have thrown them in even if it weren’t a matter of not fielding a full squad!), and forming a tight-knit unit of players who seem determined to perform for him week in, week out. I’d buy him a beer and a pie.

In short, I just want to wrap ‘now at Watford’ up in cotton wool and never let it go. Do I want us to get promoted? Well, yes – in the sense that I want us to win every game, so by extension, of course I want us to be playing to the best of our abilities and the against top opposition. Is it the right thing for the club? That’s a debate for another pint in another pub on another day.

Having established that our little bubble of brilliance probably isn’t going to last until next weekend let alone until the end of the season, I’m off now to sit in my Watford-themed shrine, squeeze my eyes closed and not open them again until the season is over and whichever outcome is least damaging to the club has occurred. Okay? And unless you all have stronger constitutions than I, I suggest you all do the same! Happy New Year everyone!

Gig review: KARNIVOOL, Jurojin & A Torn Mind @ King Tut's, 18/12/2010

You won't believe it, but it's a gig review! What this blog was originally intended for! My modus operandi since I last attended a live music event has undergone something of a polar shift, so please bear with me whilst I attempt to describe guitar sounds and drummers and things using words that aren't ‘ice’ or ‘hockey’ or anything similarly irrelevant! Right, on with the music.

Three bands of a progressive persuasion were taking to the King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut stage on a positively arctic Saturday in the excellent Scottish city of Glasgow. First on were the local support act, A Torn Mind. I hadn’t known what to make of them on my initial pre-gig listening session but the cobwebs were well and truly blown away as they kicked off their short but sweet set, the sound quality in King Tut’s kicking seven shades of excrement out of the obviously sub-par Myspace versions of their songs and forcing me to reassess my preconceptions of underwhelmed-ness. The Glaswegian four-piece were shamelessly prog, but revelled in the fact, show-casing a torrid love affair with their delay pedal and a hippy keyboard and rhythm guitar player whose dancing skills made me feel like a member of Diversity. Entertaining and unselfconscious, with a few catchy hooks – I feel these guys have a bright future ahead of them.

Direct support on the tour was provided by Jurojin, who sounded painfully southern in comparison to the gargling Scottish tones of the previous band, but lessened the sore thumb effect of my own cockney-ness a bit, which was nice. They were a bit of a conundrum, musically. In comparison to A Torn Mind they were almost contrived in their alternative-ness, featuring amongst other oddities, a tabla-player. They skated the fine line between potential genius and pretention for a few numbers before the singer uttered a line I’ve never heard before at a gig and will probably never hear again: ‘We’re going to do a 19th Century folk song now’. When a prog metal band says words like these, it more often than not spells danger. They weren’t so much skating the line now as perching on the diving board threatening to plummet into arty-farty oblivion. But then the song started. And it was brilliant. The singer pulled off the folk vocal perfectly and the version of ‘Black Leg Miner’ they performed was outstanding, chunky and metal and well, just excellent. They then proceeded to annihilate my earlier skepticism with a brilliant end to their set. I couldn’t fail to be impressed by them, heavily Tool-influenced as they were, particularly the drummer, Francesco, who was so technically proficient he threatened to eclipse the remainder of the band, and the tabla-player who added to the ridiculously high standard of the percussive end of the band. The vocals? Generally a little too clean for my liking but still. A marmite band? Almost certainly. Ones to watch – definitely.

By the time Karnivool took to the stage it was past 10:30 and I had my dancing legs on (read: I’d had about 6 pints and a couple of gins and was feeling merry). What can I say about them, other than ‘wow’. The Australian quintet couldn’t really go wrong as far as their setlist went, being as they have only released two studio albums, both of which I love, but somehow, they managed to make it so perfect, it wouldn’t have been better if I’d written it myself and had them wrap a chocolate bow around it. Kicking off with tracks from this year’s brilliant ‘Sound Awake’ record, the band’s sound was tight and crisp and soaring, true to the quality of the record but exceeded not only by their performance but by the sheer flawlessness of singer Ian Kenny’s vocals, particularly on stand-out track ‘New Day’. The guy was all kinds of cool, somehow managing to pull off chilled Aussie with not a single reference to the Ashes, and with the zen-like contentment of an inebriated Buddhist. My gigging companion likened him to a ‘stoned velociraptor’, a bizarre simile that somehow fit him down to the ground. The crowd reflected the happiness with a lot of singing, dancing and general expressions of enjoyment. Although, at 11:30 on a Saturday night in Glasgow, I can’t help but feel that a lot of their work had already been done for them.

The extent of my gig photography. Skilled I might well be, but you wouldn't know it. This is basically pretty much how I saw the gig, to be honest.

And so a good night was had by all, and Karnivool firmly placed themselves in my top gigs of the year list, sneaking on in there right at the end. I am a big fan, and I hope they come back sooner rather than later. Australia's not that far, right?