Friday, June 25, 2004


Jesus. As if life isn't tough enough without Goldfrapp being on the telly. Again.
What is it with these dreary faux synth-pompers? Maybe these po-faced knob-glossers should be restricted to their own public access channel, then at least we'd know where they were so that innocent, channel-hopping members of the public wouldn't accidentally stumble across one of their dull-as-dish-water performances. I'm thinking of petitioning the Home Secretary to get them tagged, curfewed and placed under a Public Nuisance Order. I mean...I've got young children, for Christsake. What am I supposed to tell them? God, I can see them now, looking up at me, pleading through their tear-stained eyes: "Why, daddy, why...?"
Okay, I know, it's Pilton...sorry, I mean it's the season of good will and peace to all crap bands...let bygones by bygones, etc...but, fuck it, damned if I'll let the likes of Goldfrapp inflict their drab 5th-rate Magazine impersonations on my kids. Are we living in a civilised society or not?
But what was Goldfrapp thinking of: parading around in a leotard, halfmast bacofoil cape, burlesque horse-hair 'tail' and a wig borrowed off a transvestite cartoon witch? Oh, sorry, apparently it wasn't a wig. My mistake.
As usual, she wheeled out her wonderous repetoir of half-arsed Debbie Harry drag queen moves, causing Chris to comment (from the safety of the sofa): "You realise she only dresses like that because she has zero charisma. She's over-compensating. No, wait, there's...there's something wrong with her body...oh god, her proportions are all wrong..." Then my daughter belched violently, and suddenly, as if by magic, a pair of 'exotic' dancers came on stage with fake deer-antlers...presumably to get the crowd going. Well, someone had to.
As the dancers jiggled their antlers provacatively, Chris screwed her face up and grimaced at them: "Aww, that's crap. It's just Weird for Weird's sake," she said and she had a good point, I thought. If I'd been on drugs I would've taken them back to the shop and asked for a refund. But the antlers soon came off when the dancers realised they wouldn't get spotted by The Daily Star. Shame. They were the best thing about the show.
Chris then offered some useful advice to any budding wannabe synth-bands: "You know, they shouldn't be on the main swamps them...they should be somewhere smaller, somewhere else, like the road..." Yeah, preferably with Oasis' tour-bus bearing down on them driven by a coked-up, snarling Liam, his eyes the size of flying-saucers and his freshly bleached false-teeth glinting in the sunlight...
As their set progressed, Chris and I found ourselves sinking deeper and deeper into a narcoleptic coma ...while our 8-week old baby slept soundly on the sofa for the first time since her birth...blissfully snoring and dribbling congealed, half-digested milk down her bib. I know how she feels...
Horribly fascinated, my energy-levels fading and moments from death, I crawled nearer the TV, trying to see what keyboards Goldfrapp were using, but the keyboard-player shifted position and crouched over her stand, blocking my view. For a second, we made eye-contact and I knew then that she knew I was onto them...yep, there was no mistaking it, she was definitely trying to hide their complete lack of analogue gear...
Meanwhile, the dickhead session bass player was back in full effect: transparent guitar and that dreadful, German-looking hat of his. I think it had a small feather in it; perhaps he's a fisherman, or maybe it's some sort of arcane badge worn by experienced session-players so they can recognise each other. A green feather means you've toured with Deep Purple (yes, I know, it's confusing...but just try and keep up, okay?); a white one signifies a late incarnation of Yes or one of its many spin-offs such as Asia. Mauve tinged with blue indicates Rod Stewart's Late Eighties backing-group, whereas mauve with a reddish-pink means you used to play percussion for Joan Armatrading . Ahhh, Gawd Bless the Musician's Union: Still Keeping Music Live!
In the background, some bearded ninny was prancing around on a podium in a Rasputin robe looking as if he'd been time-jacked by a random quantal-event from a Boney-M TOTP performance sometime in 1978. Well, no, he didn't, really...but I wish he did. The real problem is that I'm in danger of making this sound more interesting than it actually was. So I'll stop. I just wish they would too.
Thank God I missed P J fucking Harvey.