Lily at a Jesus Lizard gig.

Xcr'pt from "YKNY2.0": In Which Our Heroine Attends A Jesus Lizard / Fugazi Concert. Copyright Uma Uma etc.

(...)
Stage-hands instantly appear and set about clearing the place for the next act. They own the stage and they know it: young Leanne's amp gets a good kicking and is sent flying into touch, soon followed by the drum kit (minus seated drummer though). Stage-hands sport pony tails on their heads and utility belts off their bellies, that's how you recognise them. I already know their kind: they're usually called "Spidy" on account of the tattoo covering their neck and like nothing better but to draw peckers with their flash-lamp once the lights have gone down. This reminds me: Where the Bono is Mathieu? Still hasn't reappeared from his drink gathering mission! Could do with a coke me, I'm melting...

If that were any possible, the atmosphere about the place has now turned even more electric: with the opening act gone, the audience are starting to smell blood and there is an undeniable sense of expectation taking over. I note a new age range taking up position at the front (also known as "the mashed pit"), more of the athletic type, and with lethal shorter than short crew cuts. They pierce right through the throng of old fogies and head straight up for the battlefront. ...Sadly I precisely belong to the throng of olf fogies. Caught in the changing of the guard, I can't extricate myself fast enough and soon get thrown about -I'm literally swept off my feet! Huh, huh, "scuse me", "sorry", nothing doing -the ebb and flow carries me in its wake and I have no choice but to follow. Do I not enjoy that, oh not one bit! Can't even turn my head round, can't be looking for Mathieu -for all I know, the fecker may still be queueing for the bar- and so I start to bounce.
Boiiing, boiiing.

"No ham shanking if yer kippin' in me scratcher d'you hear?"
"But he was miiiiiiles offside!"
"Ya big spanner, I'd have torn the skanger a new one I would!"
"Right boys, I'm off to shake hands with the unemployed -buzz me when it starts yeah?"
"And I was like "huh", "'da fuck??" -Didn't know whether to shit or get a haircut!?"
"Is that true they'll jump you if you light up?"
"Ma che cosa dice??"

I'm desperately trying to swim against the tide here, where oh where is Mathieu? Why did I ever choose to move in the first place, what in the name possessed me!! Really should have known better I mean... What was I thinking without any protection from the great unwashed?? /grr :-((/


"Yeah I 'seen them, like... ten years ago man -They ripped the place apart! They were bodies flying all over place, much breaking of bones and shit, 'know? Your man himself got knocked out! Got knocked right out, he did... Bleeding everywhere he was -the band never stopped playing though -Oh, happy days..."
"Paid the full wack: thirty bleedin' Euro!!"
"Got it for free."
"Seriously though, a 'tache can soak up to ten percent of your beer -surely doesn't make economic sense to"
"That's nothing dude: I used to snort E's up me brown!"
"Shit you not, mate! Next time you see Ciara, check out the noddies on her... D'you reckon she's good for the goose?"
"Feaked your wan last night, man -and she wasn't worth the two Euro!!"
"Ah she's a cute little hoor alright -hope she passed you her hepatitis"
"I'd have to say man, I don't have much truck with this bollix: "No man is an island" me brown! Think about it: Man's a human being, right? And an island is a maritime based tectonic plates crash occurence, know worramean?"
"One-bagger or two-bagger?"
"Two-bagger man, I ren as soon as me spuds were done!"


Slowly but surely, I do manage to slide ever so slightly between the packed bodies:
"'Scuse me fellas / 'scuse me / sorry / sorry there, didn't see you / coming through / 'scuse me!"
At last I spot Mathieu. He's safely perched on top of the stairs, and proudly holds a plastic glass. 'Sweetie must have been looking for me I reckon, but not exactly being the tallest in the height department, I probably don't register on his radar -should have sprayed my hair funny, that'd have done the trick! In a strange way, of us two, 'turns out he's the one 'made the right choice when he decided to stay behind and wait to get served -that'll learn me for trying to be cute. So there he is now, literally lording it high above, while I'm still elbowing my way to safety down below. On another day he'd be about -oh- all of five seconds away from me. In the present circumstance... a good ten minutes of assault course.
"'Scuse me, 'scuse me"
-"Hey there... and where you think you're going?"
Big bloke. No hair. Dressed black on black.
-(?!?) "This way!" ( -------> )
-"Not so fast not so fast, we've only just met haven't we? Besides, you can't go through here: See?" ( <------- br="br"> It's jam-packed solid. Nothing moving. ( - )
"Why d'you wanna go anyways? The Lizard are about to come on"
-"I... It's a bit too mental for me, 'know? Don't feel too well"
-"Right you are it's focken mental!! It's a focken honour to see Fugazi and the Lizard!! Just you wait til Dave Yeow comes on, he's proper hardcore"
-"Dave Who?"
-"Dave Yeow -He's the singer"
-"Oh, yeah"
-"Proper hardcore, he is. So. ... You're up for a bit of "Wheelchair Epidemic" then?"
-"Wheelchair what???"
-""Wheelchair Epi"-Right. I see. Tell me now young lady, you don't seem to know much about the Lizard now, do you?"
-"Nope."
-"And Fugazi?"
-"Neither."
-"Right so... Huh, well in that case let me suggest you brace yourself love, you might want to"

A huge roar erupts behind me. (Behind me... that is to say ahead of us, should I face the opposite.) (Which I'm not.) (Hence behind my behind, or the conventional upfront.) A huge roar erupts then, which leads me to conclude the second band are making their entrance -Quick! Quick! Get me out of here double fast! As the crowd surges forward, it creates a vacuum effect in its wake which suits me just fine: see me getting squirted further away! Yyyyyyyyyyes, one more push and I'll be safe! Safe!
"Driiiiing, driiiing, bong!" Somewhere behind me, the rock 'n rollers test their guitars. Their guitars respond.
"One two two, one two!" It's now the turn of someone sounding already hoarse.
One more push... Only one more push and I'm home and dry... On any day, all I'd have to do is open my mouth and Mathieu would hear me. He would hear me perfect.
"One two two one two -just you wait motherfucker"
I slide an arm between two bodies and insert my right shoulder. Next step is my head, 'need to be brave, 'need to be brave and grab my chance by the balls: Dare I risk it through the sweaty opening? I totally feel like a baby emerging! I slip a leg through, I'm now technically one half already there...
"Alright ladiesngenlemen, we are"
-"Com' on you focker now com' on!!"
-"the Jesus Lizard and we're very pleased to (something?) with you tonight"
-"Com' on ya bunch a pussies!!"
-"so we ONE TA THREE FOUR"

All hell breaks loose. There's no other way to describe it.

All hell breaks loose and and I swear to God if one half of my body -the one stuck between two perfect strangers- doesn't literally fly through the air! Holly Molly! The other half, meanwhile, remains very much standing on its remaining foot as I discover new perspectives in gravity.

Then it gets worse.

Before I know it, the melee to which my squeezed half belongs surges forward, and I am dragged (or should it be pulled?) backwards (or should it be forwards?) into the fray. One leg up, one leg down. My right side sandwiched between the brutes, my left side offering a surely unflattering view of my anatomy: Aaaaaahhhhhh! I am desperately trying to get some leverage here, anywhere will do.
"Hey, hey -Wait! Wait!! Hold it there guys! Hold it th"
But the young braves get down with it and start pumping their fists in the air -or whatever it is the youngs indulge in these days.
"Excuuuuse me!"
A fair bit of shuffling ensues -hey, I said no groping!- and I finally manage to extricate myself. Well, extricate one half of me, that is. I am still facing the wrong way though, and from my position, I'm ideally placed to observe glasses of beer gracefully trace through the air all the way from the stairs -Waste of a fiver, that. Steam is literally rising from people's heads, I think I'm gonna faint.
"I'LL CALM DOWN!!", some beast roars behind me, "I'LL CALM DOWN!!" By the sound of the infernal racket going on, I'd say he doesn't seem to stand much of a chance.
"-But I'm still shaking."

I still haven't had the opportunity to actually see what these lizards look like.
What they sound like though is... ahem, quite distinctive in their own way yeah. They're distinctive alright. Best description would be: the sound of falling down the stairs, falling down the stairs. I don't know what these guys are on -booze, speed, one, fire, one night only, stage, tour- but it sure isn't the money: they're like totally over the place! Bang, bong, boom, crash, speak squeak creak, meaow -I can't make heads or tails of what's going on! It's a bit like, let's see... it's a bit like when your thirteen year old boyfriend decides to demonstrate his newly acquired guitar skills, it's like that time when you brought back home the video for "Twin Peaks The Movie" instead of the one for "Twins", it's like going for a glass of water in the middle of the night and stumbling across your Da getting a "treat" from a groupie ...it's not a pleasant experience.
What do I do? What do I do? My first priority has to be to try 'n stay in one piece: some fierce pogoing is going on all around and I don't stand a chance. Being "petite" by nature -don't call me short OK- I'm like totally exposed to them flailing elbows. "Hey guys! Watch it!" I get hit in the back of my head and have no choice but to turn around.

This is when I discover this David "Yo!" fellow.

Sweet lamb a Jaysus! Whatever happened to humanity! I'm not even going to describe, let alone quibble, his sense of dress -your man hasn't any. What strikes me first is his general appearance. The Lizard front-man could reasonably be described as some kind of purple faced grunting gargoyle all over the shop, sweating from every pore and squealing like a hoarse pig stuck on a roast. He hasn't even bothered to put on a shirt. What's wrong with wearing a shirt, man? Is that too much to ask?? Isn't it how people actually evolved in fact: the one fine day they decided to leave their cosy cave and venture outside see what was up, didn't they -like- put on clothes in order to brave the cold? And -lo!- dress sense was born! Not only that, but clothes -think about it- clothes, isn't it how we differentiate and recognise each other? Huh? (Like "Look it! Here's a tidy fellow sporting a lethal cashmere scarf, I'm having some of that" and "Oh, here's a Decko.") -Isn't it what led to the creation of Brown Thomas of all places??
...But this small evolutionary detail sadly seems to have escaped this gentleman's attention altogether. In fact, the singer -and I use the term generously here- appears to be presently more preoccupied with keeping his torn trousers up. Ewww my word -doesn't look like we can expect any Calvin Klein underneath!
"Squeeeeal squeeeeeal, motherfucker, squeeeeal, one two one two!"
The music stops for a micro-second... (insert micro-second here) and then chaos resumes (/chaos/). "Broaaaaaaagh, bang, crash wallop woof woof!" As crashing cymbals joyfully drown out the harmonious din of out-of-tune guitars, your man comes up with a brilliant idea. He hurls himself head first into the crowd. "wwwwWAOOOOOOwww!" The crowd, to their credit, don't make way and receive him enthusiastically. Go check out YouTube and you'll find videos of audiences failing to receive stage divers. ...It can be quite messy. Thankfully, tonight's is not one of these occasions and your man, now held aloft by a sea of tattooed arms, squeals and grunts some more: "wwwWWWHEYYYYYY!" -Chris de Borg this clearly ain't. The squirming frontfellow now starts surfing above the assembled heads (why, David? why?) and progresses towards no particular destination -I get the feeling that this is part of the show, part of their routine. In fact, he's not the only crowd surfer in attendance, as two or three more appear out of nowhere. ...Well at least these two are not supposedly here to sing, which is what your man was hired to do. Yo's singing goes something like this:
"May-be (something something really fast) boilermaker, may-be (something something really fast again) boilermaker woooAAAAARGGGGGHHHH!"
I think we've moved on to a new song but I'm not entirely sure... Meanwhile, the crowd surfers meet in the middle of the eruption and exchange head-bumps as males do. Crunch! Vlam! Pronk! More grunting and squealing ensues.
"Hey man have you been rubbin' your knob hey man have you (unintelligible) gimme the mike back motherfucker"
I am getting it from all directions now, as all manners of body parts fly about: elbows, arms, backs, knees... everyone's gone epileptic or. To think that I fancied a quiet night in... :-( Brave young males engage in some kind of wardance and I am left to fend off for myself, stuck in the middle of traffic. Left right left right, I've become a human top, spinning around but not the way Kylie intended.


"(Grunt) baby baby baby" -what's so genius about that??- "(unintelligible) dancing naked gurls wwwHHEEYYYYyy!! Bark, bark, yeaaahhh you (something) to meeee (grunt) the best paaarts -I've got your number motherfucker: Bang!!"
I fear retribution is in the air -literally- as a blur of legs flies over me and a body soon follows, disappearing head first under the forest of arms. How heartwarming... your man's sudden vertical departure is saluted by big cheers all around, but not to worry: more meet-and-greet candidates for suicide instantly replace him, moshing their way over people's craniums and necks. As the mayhem continually reconfigures itself with no regard for propriety, I suddenly find myself pressing hard against someone's sweaty manboobs -ewww... The biffo in question is towering over me and wears a charming shirt that reads "Hips Lips Tits Power" (???) but that's just fab: the big fellow's acting as a human shield against the rolling waves -Alleluia! I've found shelter! It might last just one more song, but I've found shelter! I cling to him, I cling to him, and my personal sumo arches his back against the relentless assault.

Somewhere above our heads, the lead grunter concludes one of his incomprehensible assaults on melody with a satisfied "Aaaaahhhh..." Truth be told, I'm getting the hang of recognising Jesus Lizard song endings: they're over when all that remains is the droning larsen between your ears. It usually brings us ten seconds of temporary respite.

Now let's talk serious.
I'm sorry but, back in the days when a certain Dub legend bestrode the stage like the proverbal octopuss, things were much simpler: the singer stood on the stage... and not on his audience's heads. There was -like- a clear line in the sand, and everyone knew where to stand. That is to say:
the audience "A" on one side,
and the band "B" on the other. Full stop. Inbetween the two shall no meet. (Or at least, not before the after-show, er, "congratulations" -'nuff said, see above.)
In days of yore, you most certainly did not see bodies flying right past your nose like I just did (oops, that must have hurt). I certainly can't imagine JohnnyRay The-Man-Himself taking very kindly to anyone crashing his personal space, let alone pilfering his mike mid-rant. No no no no, the Bard of Blanchardstown wouldn't have put up with that one bit! I don't imagine he would have gone for a wander down the mashed pit either, or put himself at the mercy of his listeners' tired arms -talking of which, I wonder how many more emergency landings are likely to happen tonight (there goes another one); the answer's probably a few.

"Mumble mumble mumble been a wonderful audience mumble SQUEEEAL HERE COMES DUDLEY!!"
The apocalypse resumes. Boom boom cymbals bass grumble shriek guitar and all that jazz. I'm almost getting used to this nonsense by now: it's like these guys started with perfectly legitimate songs with a normal guitar riff, a solid bass line and a coherent rhythm ...and then set about messing them up for the craic of it. (Huh, they mess them up alright.) Here we go again: Stop / start / stop / start / guitar shrill (I think it's meant to be a "riff") / stop again; bass heavier than yo mama's arse; drummer sounding like he's put on boxing gloves: another sonic outrage is on its way. So let's detune the guitar some more eh ("boiiiing!"), let's bash the bass ("Brommm!"), and let's ply the drumman with booze for good measure ("Weeeeeeee!"). Sighs rock critic Lily... Why can't they just leave it alone and keep it simple? Chill pill, lads! Yous are definitely starting to wreck me bonce something massive! Meanwhile and more pressingly, my man-shelter appears to be wilting under the relentlesss surge of the rioters and we're inexorably pushed towards the front. 'Can't possibly grab his love handles more desperately without risking a "X" certificate and so I slip, I slide, I submit. I go with the flow, I have no choice. "Zzzzzzip" go my feet dragged on the floor (that is, if I could hear them), "Boom boom boom bong" go the bass and drums -Jaysus is this a heavy number or what! With the resumption of the hostilities, the singer has taken to climbing over people's heads again -in fact I wonder when I last saw him on the stage proper- and I note with alarm that he's currently heading this way.

He's currently heading this way.

This can't be good. This can't be good for me. As as I get dragged/pushed along, depending on which way I turn, I realise to my absolute horror that your man is unerringly heading straight for me! Desperate times call for despearate measures: no no no no, please by the Bono, say it ain't so!! But calling on the holy one proves of no use: before I know it, the grunting gnome towers over me, all sweat and manhandled parts -I don't even want to imagine who's been holding what, let's not go there! His flabby torso hovers over my hair and he starts dripping all over me! Aaaahhhhh!!! Your man's totally dripping and I am trapped underneath, with everyone naturally dead intent on maintaining him in that very position on that very spot -Get him off me! Get him off me! That'll be a double shampoo and tetanus shot for me first thing in the morning, that. I close my eyes and try to be brave:
Sweet Mary mother of our Lord, should you hear me above this infernal racket, I promise to be a good girl from now on. No more "Dawson Creek" / "O.C." marathon, no more faffing about at the gym, not even any slagging of badly dressed oafs -and you knooow how much I can't abide slovenliness!


Finally I can't help it, curiosity gets the better of me and I look up. I soon regret my decision.
Your man is currently dangling down three feet away from me, his limbs somewhat stretched out in five different directions. The beast fixes me right in the eye for a full half-second and snarls: "That woman was crazy..." Why, thanks a bunch mister, you're not too sound yourself! And then, as his right leg swings over his left shoulder, he adds "-She's the mistress of a man who's crazy too" and, on this note, rolls away. He is bundled over to another lucky lucky punter and our moment passes. "Touched by the hand of God" we were not -Dripped over by the spawn of Satan more like! And then Mary shines a light on me.
Not only does the deranged stunt man drift away entirely ("that's right Dudley wwwweyyYYYyyy"), but most of the hoi-polloi follows and -alleluia!- I see an opening. I see an opening, says I. All of a sudden there is hope in the stampede, salvation amidst the sweatfest. The mental feckers are so keen on sticking to their hero -and in more ways than one, I'd say- on his air-lifted journey that they leave themselves exposed at the back. I don't think twice and dash for it.
In one second flat, I squeeeeeze out of the throng and rush to the back like it's nobody's business -Hurrah for we are born again! I make it to the stairs and cling to them almost hardly believing my luck. I've met the man himself and walked away from him, I'm the greatest. Sure, me hair must be all over the place now and let's not get started on my panda make-up (ruined altogether!) -but I survived. Oh I survived alright. Your man's raging impotently in his corner now -I like to think he misses me already. He roars something about "HERE COMES DUDLEY!! HERE COMES DUDLEY!!!" (now who the feck that Dudley fellow is, I still have no idea).

I treat myself to a long sigh ("siiiiiiiigh") and survey the damage done: nah, no pocket got torn off and no button's gone missing, that's a relief. On my right, two cool dudes sip foreign beer from a bottle and pass comment on the proceedings:
-Dude number one: "Yaaaah, pretty lethal like... If you wanna know my opinion, he's da shit, man. Dead rapa, that."
-Dude number two: "True for you my man, true for you -although he was pretty ripped last time 'round too, that would have been oh... three or four years ago? Your man was like totally out of his box."
I turn round, I goes: "Oh is that so...? Well fellows, let me tell yous, yous don't even know who yous're talking to! See me? Was just after banging heads with your man out there in the pit! 'Matter of fact, yous come closer and sniff me -That's The Man Himself yous'll smell!!"

Except I don't. And good thing too
as dude number one continues: "Oh that one, eh? So I heard yeah, so I heard... -Then again, it was only at a bogside reception for a new TD, mind! You should see him in action at the Dail when he goes and tears Enda a new one"
-Dude number two: "Oh no question, man: Bertie never disappoints when he's up for it!"

I catch my breath and consider maybe calling an end to tonight's funs and games. I become aware of a now constant ringing in my ear, which I take to indicate no more start-and-stop "song" is currently in progress. And indeed
"Thangyouladiesngenlemen, been a smashin' audience (mumble mumble mumble) FUGAZI!" rings out whence I escaped. Huge cheers all round.
Oh blast, I forgot there's more to come!! Do I really want to hang around for that Chinese band?

As the Ride Us Lizard depart, presumably picking up their clothes in the process, the crowd disperses, leaving only casualties with limbs facing the wrong way on the dance floor. Now where could your warriors possibly migrate to? That's right, they all flow back towards the bar! I desperately look to Mathieu and cling on to the handrail -I'd have better luck juggling soap bars! And so, without even so much as a basic "Sorry love but get the feck outta me way" for my trouble, I get pegged back ten yards by the incoming traffic. "Zzzzzzip" some more (that'll be my hand sliding up the banister), I get pushed about like I hardly exist -Jaysus, is this "kick Lily"'s day or what! Oh, and are this lot in desperate need of a gargle or? Huh. ... They certainly smell like they are (open snidey hashtag, close snidey hashtag). (...)