Review: New Order at the Brixton Academy
Parents, generally, if encouraging their children to play a musical instrument, ask them if they would like to play the violin or the cello. When a child asks for an instrument that they actually want to play, any parent will feel a surge of relief if it is 'electric guitar' rather than 'D J decks'. The end of the journey for somebody who can play an electric guitar is on stage with the crowd chanting the name of your band. The end of journey for a talented D J is, if last night is anything to judge, playing to a theatre of people who are chanting the name of the band that they want you to fuck off the stage to make room for. A more likely end is printing business cards in a motorway service station with the term 'mobile disco' on them. D J Tintin was supporting New Order at the Brixton Academy and, even though he was trying every trick he had learned in D J school, he would have done better just to have stuck on 'Dancing Queen' or, if he really wanted to please the crowd, 'Blue Monday'.
When New Order did take the stage they were excellent. They did everything that you would want from a pop group whose music you have listened to for years. They were loud, they played the hits, they turned up on time and they finished promptly, allowing you to get home and pay off the babysitter before double rates kicked in. The crowd lived every track but certain tracks, 'Blue Monday' in particular, excited the place beyond reason, as well it might with a guitar so loud it sounded like a cross between construction and a seismic event.
Yes, it was a night of live music! At a venue! And an interesting venue at that.
If a tinpot dictator should ever need guards for his brutal, repressive regime, then the thing to do is to kit out people with high viz orange jackets (a sure sign of petty authority if worn by anyone not shovelling Tarmac) and apprentice them at the Brixton Academy as security. There is nothing that builds expectations of a great gig quite like being shouted at to keep in line by a runt dressed like a traffic cone with delusions of having 'steward' as a job description.
Once through the door of the theatre they split the crowd up into men and women, just like they do in an internment camp or in a temple of one of the rougher sorts of religion, then do a bag and body search. I am talking about two entity different things thankfully, although the pat down was pretty intimate. I had not known there would be a bag check and so had not thought to pack any of my bag check conversation pieces; garden gnome, double headed dildo, spring loaded bear trap, that sort of thing. As it was all he found to object to was my water bottle, which was binned because presumably I might have filled it with vodka in order to avoid the bar prices. This was a grossly unfair assumption, it was in fact filled with an indifferent Chardonnay which, to be truthful, I was quite glad to see the back of.
Obviously tango boy could smell I was a rum 'un and indeed prior to the gig I had tried to offload a spare ticket to a tout, only to be turned down because it was an e ticket, meaning I could have printed two, flogged him one and so stuck him with a worthless ticket. It comes to something when your character is being questioned by a bloody petty criminal. Still I suppose it only takes one disgruntled burly customer to be turned away from the gig and come back and beat the living shit out of the tout in order to put him off e tickets, if not a life of crime.
Brixton Academy is a mixture of faded grandure and rough as hell venue. The stage is surrounded by a sort of Italian village fresco, with little towers and trees. Like most actual Italian villages it's in a right old state, but I suppose that a steady stream of rock bands, rock fans, spilled beer and loud music will have an effect on a place.The shouty security extended inside, although I thought it was a little bit over the top when there was a bloke shouting at the line into the gents to move faster, it was an excellent cure for anyone with problems about urinating in front of others.
Grim though the Brixton Academy may be, its a great, intimate, pop venue, allowing you to actually see the band and rather more fun than standing in a field in the rain watching a figure on a screen because your view of the stage is obscured by the sound mixing marquee and the twelve thousand people in front of you.The demographic was interesting. There were young people there, easily identified because like young people everywhere they were wearing Superdry tee shirts. The older people frankly looked happy that this was a gig with seating. I had imagined that the majority of those attending would be the sort of people who had sweated through their tee shirts dancing to Blue Monday every weekend when it was first released, but of course the music of previous generations is enjoyed by the younger generation, usually to the annoyance of the older generation, although in truth if music was not enjoyed from generation to generation, Mozart would be fucked.
When New Order did take the stage they were excellent. They did everything that you would want from a pop group whose music you have listened to for years. They were loud, they played the hits, they turned up on time and they finished promptly, allowing you to get home and pay off the babysitter before double rates kicked in. The crowd lived every track but certain tracks, 'Blue Monday' in particular, excited the place beyond reason, as well it might with a guitar so loud it sounded like a cross between construction and a seismic event.
Yes, it was a night of live music! At a venue! And an interesting venue at that.
If a tinpot dictator should ever need guards for his brutal, repressive regime, then the thing to do is to kit out people with high viz orange jackets (a sure sign of petty authority if worn by anyone not shovelling Tarmac) and apprentice them at the Brixton Academy as security. There is nothing that builds expectations of a great gig quite like being shouted at to keep in line by a runt dressed like a traffic cone with delusions of having 'steward' as a job description.
Once through the door of the theatre they split the crowd up into men and women, just like they do in an internment camp or in a temple of one of the rougher sorts of religion, then do a bag and body search. I am talking about two entity different things thankfully, although the pat down was pretty intimate. I had not known there would be a bag check and so had not thought to pack any of my bag check conversation pieces; garden gnome, double headed dildo, spring loaded bear trap, that sort of thing. As it was all he found to object to was my water bottle, which was binned because presumably I might have filled it with vodka in order to avoid the bar prices. This was a grossly unfair assumption, it was in fact filled with an indifferent Chardonnay which, to be truthful, I was quite glad to see the back of.
Obviously tango boy could smell I was a rum 'un and indeed prior to the gig I had tried to offload a spare ticket to a tout, only to be turned down because it was an e ticket, meaning I could have printed two, flogged him one and so stuck him with a worthless ticket. It comes to something when your character is being questioned by a bloody petty criminal. Still I suppose it only takes one disgruntled burly customer to be turned away from the gig and come back and beat the living shit out of the tout in order to put him off e tickets, if not a life of crime.
Brixton Academy is a mixture of faded grandure and rough as hell venue. The stage is surrounded by a sort of Italian village fresco, with little towers and trees. Like most actual Italian villages it's in a right old state, but I suppose that a steady stream of rock bands, rock fans, spilled beer and loud music will have an effect on a place.The shouty security extended inside, although I thought it was a little bit over the top when there was a bloke shouting at the line into the gents to move faster, it was an excellent cure for anyone with problems about urinating in front of others.
Grim though the Brixton Academy may be, its a great, intimate, pop venue, allowing you to actually see the band and rather more fun than standing in a field in the rain watching a figure on a screen because your view of the stage is obscured by the sound mixing marquee and the twelve thousand people in front of you.The demographic was interesting. There were young people there, easily identified because like young people everywhere they were wearing Superdry tee shirts. The older people frankly looked happy that this was a gig with seating. I had imagined that the majority of those attending would be the sort of people who had sweated through their tee shirts dancing to Blue Monday every weekend when it was first released, but of course the music of previous generations is enjoyed by the younger generation, usually to the annoyance of the older generation, although in truth if music was not enjoyed from generation to generation, Mozart would be fucked.
Labels: Brixton, Brixton Academy, Music, New Order
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