Insane in the membrane, insane in the brain
Last weekend - or, no two weekends ago - was the October Whitby Goth Weekend. After a few-year break in tradition, the October weekend is back to happening in October, which saves on confusion.
I trundled up a chunk of M1 on the Thursday night and stopped in a glamorous motorway services, having decided a while back that work -> home -> Whitby in one evening is a silly idea if leaving work at normal time. I arrived in town late Friday morning, in confusing sunshine, when Davefish and Keris were already settled in in our house. This time we'd acquired extra housemates in the form of Mrph and Elaine, but they inexplicably decided to spend most of Friday sitting in traffic jams instead of joining us.
We sort of bimbled around the shops for a bit, then Davefish and I headed off to nose into pubs to quest for![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zotz who'd claimed he might be in one. He wasn't, but we found people in the Little Angel. Mrph and Elaine finally bothered to drive to Whitby, and we hung out in the Elsinore for a bit before hunter-gathering tacos from the new Taco-ery on Baxtergate.
The opening band at the Spa was Pussycat and the Dirty Johnson, whom I've previously enjoyed. They're a basic punk-rockabilly trio with an impressive frontperson (the eponymous Pussycat), and they're usually good value. However, this time I wasn't quite so wowed by them, and definitely think Pussycat does a better job on the tracks where she's just singing (not playing guitar as well).
Hands Off Gretel are another three piece, with much more a rock-y grunge-y thing going on. They're one of those bands I'll happily watch, but don't expect to like recorded. They've got a lot of energy, though, and they're a good show.
I kept thinking that I really ought to know who The Membranes were, and failing. I had them vaguely filed as a US band, from the 70s, probably described as seminal, probably reformed and probably rubbish. I'm not sure about the seminal, and they are from the 70s, but they're also from Lancashire. Also, apparently have released a well-regarded album since reformation, which means I'm a bit more forgiving. Anyway, they turned out well worth it. I went in to watch them, and came out saying "I didn't know prog-punk was a thing." Zotz says I should listen to The Cardiacs. (On which note, but not relatedly, Landmine says I should listen to Ferocious Dog. Hopefully if I write it down I'll remember.)
There'd been something of an argument in our house about Theatre of Hate over tacos. "Shouty" was Davefish's description. Really? I'd have said more wailing than shouty. No, I was told, that's me thinking of Theatre of Tragedy. It turns out, however, that I was thinking of the right band and everyone else was on Spear of Destiny. This is how firm a grasp we all have on the line-up :)
Anyway, I really enjoyed Theatre of Hate, despite them being another slightly warmed-over band from long ago. More jazz saxophone than I was really expecting.
You could, of course, just listen to the band microsnippets on the WGW sampler on Youtube instead of reading my witterings :) Although bear in mind it still thinks Fuzzbox are on the line-up; they were ill and thus turned into Lupentooth on Saturday.
On Saturday I actually bestirred myself to get out of bed to go and join Snow_Leopard Sleep_er, and Kirstie for an escape room. Some hastily exchanged texts the previous day had formulated the plan: meet under the polar bear at half eleven. Fortunately I've been wandering around Whitby long enough to accept directions like that, and thus strolled over the bridge on the spot of half past. The East side was just beginning to clog up with various steampunk Wookies and Victorian clown werewolves, so we sensible turned the other way and headed up past the marina.
Snow_Leopard and Sleep_er are old hands at this escape room malarkey. I've done one before, and Kirstie had done none, but we had a jolly fine time battling communally through the clues. Slightly annoyingly, we got out just 5 seconds short of beating the record time - however, the room itself was a lot of fun, with some grand puzzles (Eskape Whitby, if you fancy it).
We tidied ourselves into Java for lunch, and scooped up John_the_Hat, and generally set the world to rights. Then I went to meet the parents to swap a Sega Megadrive for a small doorkey (my life is very exciting). And by then it was more or less time to join the rest of my household in theShitty Bucket Rusty Shears for gin.
And then it was time for fish and chips. Having two Strictly fans in the house, we watched the Hallowe'en special while eating our chips. This meant getting ready was a strangely episodic affair, with people popping upstairs in between dances, and the rest of the company hollering to let them know it was time to pop back down again.
I forewent the end of Strictly to catch Lupentooth, who will maybe be OK when they've had a bit of practice. Three-piece horror punk, and quite a good stage presence, but the singer was appallingly out of tune most of the time. (Yeah, punk being out of tune... who'd have thought it? But really, some styles can get away with it. If you can't sing in tune, then go for one of them.)
I had never of Massive Ego, but various people seemed quite excited about them. The main attraction was the frontman's makeup - matte black glitter across his entire face, neck, head and the two giant horns growing from his forehead. Really quite impressive - I've no idea how he managed to get it that matte, or that consistent, or that inclined to stay on under stage lighting. I wasn't wowed by the music - I reviewed it to Kirstie, when I headed back out to the foyer, as perfectly servicable EBM. Unfortunately, listening to it I always felt like there was a drop coming any moment... and it never did.
Two blokes standing near me obviously didn't like Massive Ego, and rather than do the decent thing (sack off to the bar and ignore the band) decided to stand there shouting about how much they weren't enjoying it. Eventually I decided they were denting my experience rather, and took myself elsewhere.
If I hadn't had something better to do, I might have listened to Vince Ripper and the Rodent Show since that didn't sound as awful as I remembered. But there were plenty of people to chat to - so I stuck to my previous diagnosis ("like a low-rent Alien Sex Fiend. And I don't like ASF much") and hung out in the foyer.
The Birthday Massacre, however, were excellent. They're probably going to be described as something with darkwave in their name (I am awful at genres) but I personally file them as Nightwish-lite. A really good, big sound with a real drummer and a fabulous singer. As it happens, the two this-is-shit blokes from earlier elected to come and stand near me again, but apparently they like the Birthday Massacre.
The night ended oddly, with Mrph and I ganging up with Kirstie to walk John_the_Hat home. He had, earlier in the evening, suggested to a bloke taking long-range zoomed-in photos of a young lady's cleavage that that behaviour was a bit creepy and that he ought really to ask before taking pictures. Later on, while John was talking to the staff on the info stall, said bloke came up to harangue him, and also started shouting at the staff, and ultimately wound up getting chucked out of the venue. The Spa doorstaff advised John to leave through the upper door, saying that the bloke was still around outside and "spoiling for a fight". On that consoling note, we scooted out the top door and delivered John and Kirstie to their door without incident.
Sunday started, as all good Sundays should, with cake for breakfast. And, as it happens, with Keris dancing round the living room singing "cake for breakfast! cake for breakfast!" Once we'd done that, everyone felt up to heading out for real breakfast, and we hit the diner on Flowergate. We ordered six breakfasts between five of us, because (as Elaine correctly pointed out) if we had an extra platter of pancakes they were bound to get eaten (they did - cake for third breakfast!).
The previously unprecedented sunny weather had got its act together and begun drizzling in a much more familiar way, which squished my vague intentions to go and watch the football for once. Instead I did a little shopping, then went and flopped on the sofa with Elaine to watch Corpse Bride and have a little nap.
It's the first time since October '15 that I've been in any sort of shape to go and dance at the 80s night, so after hoovering up tapas in Harry's Elaine and I headed down to the much-more-spacious venue of RAW. It seemed oddly un-busy, which isn't quite on point for the 80s night, but kind of nice to have a bit more space for the wild flailing. Unironic flailing, at that, since I'm pretty sure not a soul there can really qualify as Youth Gone Wild any more; middle-age gone to seed, more like.
I was confidently expecting that the 80s night would shut down and I would go home to bed, and was actually not impressed by the idea of a band at midnight and more clubnight until 3am. However, I stuck around for The Memepunks and what a splendid decision that was.
On the one hand, they're basically a terrible covers band. On the other, they are the purveyors of positively amazing live mashups. Have you ever thought that Alice Cooper's Poison would be much improved if one member of the band was singing The Passenger and another was singing Self-Esteem? No? Why not? They are - as several people put it - clearly the band the 80s night deserves, and they rattled sacriligiously through a 45-minute set. Special mention to the impossible-to-sing-along-to version of Heaven is a Place On Earth vs. Livin' on a Prayer. (Impossible to sing a long to because just when you think you know what's happening, you will be singing the wrong song.)
If The Memepunks are playing near you, go and see them. Do not, however, go and look them up on YouTube as all the footage seems to be absolutely appalling (if anyone knows better, please point me at something decent!)
Then someone said oh, Landmine is carrying on DJing, he's doing a 90s set... And I am nothing if not a child of the 90s, so I stuck around. And had a jolly nice time dancing like an idiot to RATM and Rammstein and Sultans of Ping and Placebo. Roy's review was "this is a small-town provincial goth night". And yup, but who's complaining, once in a while? (Certainly not my fitbit, since I managed my statutory 10K steps before I even went to bed on Monday morning ;)
Monday was a bit of a nothing of a day: getting up, hoovering the house, etc. However, it did feature a last minute dash to Sherlock's to eat lunch (or cream tea, in my case, because I think a cream tea at 11:30am is perfectly reasonable).
And that's that for another year. The bands were... decent, I'd say. But for the first time in ages I felt like I'd managed to be in the right place at the right time to catch up with various groups of people. Talking nonsense in the pub (or club, or Spa foyer, or front room) with friends is one of my most favouritest things to do, and this WGW seemed to involve a lot of laughing. So if you talked nonsense with me at any point: thanks.
I trundled up a chunk of M1 on the Thursday night and stopped in a glamorous motorway services, having decided a while back that work -> home -> Whitby in one evening is a silly idea if leaving work at normal time. I arrived in town late Friday morning, in confusing sunshine, when Davefish and Keris were already settled in in our house. This time we'd acquired extra housemates in the form of Mrph and Elaine, but they inexplicably decided to spend most of Friday sitting in traffic jams instead of joining us.
We sort of bimbled around the shops for a bit, then Davefish and I headed off to nose into pubs to quest for
zotz who'd claimed he might be in one. He wasn't, but we found people in the Little Angel. Mrph and Elaine finally bothered to drive to Whitby, and we hung out in the Elsinore for a bit before hunter-gathering tacos from the new Taco-ery on Baxtergate. The opening band at the Spa was Pussycat and the Dirty Johnson, whom I've previously enjoyed. They're a basic punk-rockabilly trio with an impressive frontperson (the eponymous Pussycat), and they're usually good value. However, this time I wasn't quite so wowed by them, and definitely think Pussycat does a better job on the tracks where she's just singing (not playing guitar as well).
Hands Off Gretel are another three piece, with much more a rock-y grunge-y thing going on. They're one of those bands I'll happily watch, but don't expect to like recorded. They've got a lot of energy, though, and they're a good show.
I kept thinking that I really ought to know who The Membranes were, and failing. I had them vaguely filed as a US band, from the 70s, probably described as seminal, probably reformed and probably rubbish. I'm not sure about the seminal, and they are from the 70s, but they're also from Lancashire. Also, apparently have released a well-regarded album since reformation, which means I'm a bit more forgiving. Anyway, they turned out well worth it. I went in to watch them, and came out saying "I didn't know prog-punk was a thing." Zotz says I should listen to The Cardiacs. (On which note, but not relatedly, Landmine says I should listen to Ferocious Dog. Hopefully if I write it down I'll remember.)
There'd been something of an argument in our house about Theatre of Hate over tacos. "Shouty" was Davefish's description. Really? I'd have said more wailing than shouty. No, I was told, that's me thinking of Theatre of Tragedy. It turns out, however, that I was thinking of the right band and everyone else was on Spear of Destiny. This is how firm a grasp we all have on the line-up :)
Anyway, I really enjoyed Theatre of Hate, despite them being another slightly warmed-over band from long ago. More jazz saxophone than I was really expecting.
You could, of course, just listen to the band microsnippets on the WGW sampler on Youtube instead of reading my witterings :) Although bear in mind it still thinks Fuzzbox are on the line-up; they were ill and thus turned into Lupentooth on Saturday.
On Saturday I actually bestirred myself to get out of bed to go and join Snow_Leopard Sleep_er, and Kirstie for an escape room. Some hastily exchanged texts the previous day had formulated the plan: meet under the polar bear at half eleven. Fortunately I've been wandering around Whitby long enough to accept directions like that, and thus strolled over the bridge on the spot of half past. The East side was just beginning to clog up with various steampunk Wookies and Victorian clown werewolves, so we sensible turned the other way and headed up past the marina.
Snow_Leopard and Sleep_er are old hands at this escape room malarkey. I've done one before, and Kirstie had done none, but we had a jolly fine time battling communally through the clues. Slightly annoyingly, we got out just 5 seconds short of beating the record time - however, the room itself was a lot of fun, with some grand puzzles (Eskape Whitby, if you fancy it).
We tidied ourselves into Java for lunch, and scooped up John_the_Hat, and generally set the world to rights. Then I went to meet the parents to swap a Sega Megadrive for a small doorkey (my life is very exciting). And by then it was more or less time to join the rest of my household in the
And then it was time for fish and chips. Having two Strictly fans in the house, we watched the Hallowe'en special while eating our chips. This meant getting ready was a strangely episodic affair, with people popping upstairs in between dances, and the rest of the company hollering to let them know it was time to pop back down again.
I forewent the end of Strictly to catch Lupentooth, who will maybe be OK when they've had a bit of practice. Three-piece horror punk, and quite a good stage presence, but the singer was appallingly out of tune most of the time. (Yeah, punk being out of tune... who'd have thought it? But really, some styles can get away with it. If you can't sing in tune, then go for one of them.)
I had never of Massive Ego, but various people seemed quite excited about them. The main attraction was the frontman's makeup - matte black glitter across his entire face, neck, head and the two giant horns growing from his forehead. Really quite impressive - I've no idea how he managed to get it that matte, or that consistent, or that inclined to stay on under stage lighting. I wasn't wowed by the music - I reviewed it to Kirstie, when I headed back out to the foyer, as perfectly servicable EBM. Unfortunately, listening to it I always felt like there was a drop coming any moment... and it never did.
Two blokes standing near me obviously didn't like Massive Ego, and rather than do the decent thing (sack off to the bar and ignore the band) decided to stand there shouting about how much they weren't enjoying it. Eventually I decided they were denting my experience rather, and took myself elsewhere.
If I hadn't had something better to do, I might have listened to Vince Ripper and the Rodent Show since that didn't sound as awful as I remembered. But there were plenty of people to chat to - so I stuck to my previous diagnosis ("like a low-rent Alien Sex Fiend. And I don't like ASF much") and hung out in the foyer.
The Birthday Massacre, however, were excellent. They're probably going to be described as something with darkwave in their name (I am awful at genres) but I personally file them as Nightwish-lite. A really good, big sound with a real drummer and a fabulous singer. As it happens, the two this-is-shit blokes from earlier elected to come and stand near me again, but apparently they like the Birthday Massacre.
The night ended oddly, with Mrph and I ganging up with Kirstie to walk John_the_Hat home. He had, earlier in the evening, suggested to a bloke taking long-range zoomed-in photos of a young lady's cleavage that that behaviour was a bit creepy and that he ought really to ask before taking pictures. Later on, while John was talking to the staff on the info stall, said bloke came up to harangue him, and also started shouting at the staff, and ultimately wound up getting chucked out of the venue. The Spa doorstaff advised John to leave through the upper door, saying that the bloke was still around outside and "spoiling for a fight". On that consoling note, we scooted out the top door and delivered John and Kirstie to their door without incident.
Sunday started, as all good Sundays should, with cake for breakfast. And, as it happens, with Keris dancing round the living room singing "cake for breakfast! cake for breakfast!" Once we'd done that, everyone felt up to heading out for real breakfast, and we hit the diner on Flowergate. We ordered six breakfasts between five of us, because (as Elaine correctly pointed out) if we had an extra platter of pancakes they were bound to get eaten (they did - cake for third breakfast!).
The previously unprecedented sunny weather had got its act together and begun drizzling in a much more familiar way, which squished my vague intentions to go and watch the football for once. Instead I did a little shopping, then went and flopped on the sofa with Elaine to watch Corpse Bride and have a little nap.
It's the first time since October '15 that I've been in any sort of shape to go and dance at the 80s night, so after hoovering up tapas in Harry's Elaine and I headed down to the much-more-spacious venue of RAW. It seemed oddly un-busy, which isn't quite on point for the 80s night, but kind of nice to have a bit more space for the wild flailing. Unironic flailing, at that, since I'm pretty sure not a soul there can really qualify as Youth Gone Wild any more; middle-age gone to seed, more like.
I was confidently expecting that the 80s night would shut down and I would go home to bed, and was actually not impressed by the idea of a band at midnight and more clubnight until 3am. However, I stuck around for The Memepunks and what a splendid decision that was.
On the one hand, they're basically a terrible covers band. On the other, they are the purveyors of positively amazing live mashups. Have you ever thought that Alice Cooper's Poison would be much improved if one member of the band was singing The Passenger and another was singing Self-Esteem? No? Why not? They are - as several people put it - clearly the band the 80s night deserves, and they rattled sacriligiously through a 45-minute set. Special mention to the impossible-to-sing-along-to version of Heaven is a Place On Earth vs. Livin' on a Prayer. (Impossible to sing a long to because just when you think you know what's happening, you will be singing the wrong song.)
If The Memepunks are playing near you, go and see them. Do not, however, go and look them up on YouTube as all the footage seems to be absolutely appalling (if anyone knows better, please point me at something decent!)
Then someone said oh, Landmine is carrying on DJing, he's doing a 90s set... And I am nothing if not a child of the 90s, so I stuck around. And had a jolly nice time dancing like an idiot to RATM and Rammstein and Sultans of Ping and Placebo. Roy's review was "this is a small-town provincial goth night". And yup, but who's complaining, once in a while? (Certainly not my fitbit, since I managed my statutory 10K steps before I even went to bed on Monday morning ;)
Monday was a bit of a nothing of a day: getting up, hoovering the house, etc. However, it did feature a last minute dash to Sherlock's to eat lunch (or cream tea, in my case, because I think a cream tea at 11:30am is perfectly reasonable).
And that's that for another year. The bands were... decent, I'd say. But for the first time in ages I felt like I'd managed to be in the right place at the right time to catch up with various groups of people. Talking nonsense in the pub (or club, or Spa foyer, or front room) with friends is one of my most favouritest things to do, and this WGW seemed to involve a lot of laughing. So if you talked nonsense with me at any point: thanks.