kill surf city

"I'm embarassed to tell people what I do with my life, to think that what I do is the same as what Eric Clapton does. He's raping it, he's puking on it, he's pissing on it. For that reason I don't want to be a part of it."
Jim Reid, The Jesus and Mary Chain

I'm quite excited by the news that The Jesus And Mary Chain are reforming this summer, if only because I'm on a kind of top-trumps mission to collect live performances of all the bands I liked as a teenager (Lemonheads, check. Dinosaur Jr, check. Wedding Present, check). It would have been lovely, naturally, if they'd gone the whole hog and re-recruited Douglas Hart on bass and Bobby Gillespie on drum (singular) again, but I'm encouraged that they have pulled in one of the best drummers of the 90s, Loz Colbert from the mighty Ride (when's Andy Bell going to admit his horrendous error of judgement in joining Oasis and convince Mark Gardener to descend from the clouds and reform Ride, incidentally?). Alan McGee's useless blog article is rather pointless (although he's probably in on the publishing money, thinking about it), so don't bother with that, and instead marvel at a pic of the band and one of their early live reviews. Remember when the NME was all like this?

The Jesus and Mary Chain, North London Polytechnic - 15.3.85
by Chris Roberts

"CAMP ... INCARNATES a victory of style over content, aesthetics over morality, of irony over tragedy." - Susan Sontag on Camp, 1964.

"A society which deprives people of the hope that things might get better is in deep trouble." Daily Mirror on football hooliganism, March 1985.

Jesuses come and go, and The Mary Chain Boys - brave cowards like most characters in Shakespeare or Genet - are great pop-art, petulant, pretty, shallow, devoid of blonds, into shades, and futile, But they are not mere coffeehouse revolutionaries. In an age (The Good Old Days), when Alison Moyet and Paul Young are afforded critical respect, a lot of fucking around is surely called for.

They are not yet exploiting the media because the real, grown-up media - the one with influence - remains unaware of them. Soon, when they swear on Wogan, this will change.

Tonight's brusque 25-minute dutifully original mangling of 'The Gift' and 'Bodies' provoked a violent (choreographed? manipulated? who gives a shit?) aftermath which though vaguely frightening was predominantly wild and exciting. History. To (immorally?) perpetuate this snowball, they create their own rare and glorious justification - ie, they get a reaction.

With a grace-sozzled Viciousness, amps fly through the air like preconceptions. Rock and roll breathes and twitches again like the third rising of the supposedly slain psyche in a tacky horror movie. They know you're a mess! Clutch at this reborn fantasy of youthful rebellion before the amniotic fluid turns to cellophane; before you're too jaded to fall for it. One last fling? Awful. Gods.

ha ha, look at little Bobby Gillespie! Bless!