|Pink Grease - Cardiff Barfly
||[Nov. 12th, 2004|12:58 am]
Its A Fanzine! Crikey!
|||||VHS Or Beta - No Cabaret!||]|
Walking into the Barfly tonight was much like walking into the reception of your dodgy auntie's fifth wedding.
There was a Duran Duran covers band (even more frightening than that, all their songs were their own, with no visible outlet of irony), little children (who really shouldn't be drinking that and smoking that) and old people.
I hear you scream.
The times are a-changing, so get with it.
Because the new cool cats on the block, with an apparent appeal ranging from those of 14 to 50 years, are the PINK. GEEEE. AARRRR. EEEESSSSSSS.
(Or Pink Grease, as their mothers know them.)
When a bassist comes on stage, only to headbutt the microphone with a large smile on his face, you know you're in for a rough night.
When a wolfy-looking fella creeps on stage, to pick up a home! made! synth, you know you're at a gig.
And when a guitarist comes on stage with heeled wellies and a vest on, you know you're standing before Pink Grease.
They writhed, they gyrated and they sexed up every single member of the crowd. (Even the 50 year olds.)
The singer found time in between songs to bite women's legs, jump onto the crowd and get a little more 'intimate' with his fellow bandmembers.
And we can't be more thankful for him. Or the guitarist with the tight perm. Or the bassist with the half-shaved head. Or the band geek at the back with his huge slab of Eighties synth-ness. Or the oh-so-skinny guitarist with the sax and the keyboard-on-a-strap. Or the drummer (who, rather boringly, just drummed.)
This band is enough to leave you ravaged, fully rock and rolled out and screaming for more.
Which is what I did the whole way home.