Leftlion print ed. #12 - Nottingham Rock Tour
This was printed in the latest version of LeftLion. If you're wondering where #11 went to, it was the Tales of Robin Hood column they printed in the last issue. Keep up, will ya?
It includes the intro added by the LeftLion peeps.
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Rob Cutforth is surprised to discover that, beneath the surface, Nottingham is a bona fide Metal Muthaland…
1990 was a big year for me. I was 15, in was my first year of high school, my voice (and my balls) had finally dropped and I was introduced properly to hard Rock. To say I was a bit of a late bloomer would be like saying Dawn French kinda likes cheese. I think most people go through an awkward stage in their lives, but for me it went a bit further than most. Before my fifteenth birthday, my life was all about three things; Video games, Dungeons and Dragons and Duran Duran. That’s right, ladies.
All that changed when my best friend leant me his copy of Metallica’s ...And Justice for All that spring. I had never heard or seen anything like it before, the black guitars, the fuck-you attitude, the ridiculous hair and the even more ridiculous guitar solos. I loved it. In the years that followed, I grew my hair long, traded the neon shirts and turn-ups for denim cutoffs and a leather jacket (I’m not sure which was worse), and replaced my collection of Duran Duran and Pet Shop Boys tapes with Pantera, Guns N’ Roses, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Nirvana and, of course, Metallica. I had well and truly sold my soul to the God of Rock forever.
Eighteen years later, when my buddy John suggested I do a hard Rock pub crawl of Nottingham for my next column, I shrugged it off. Nottingham didn’t really strike me as a Rock town; it’s full of cheesy clubs. Besides, what could John possibly know about it? He certainly doesn’t look like a Rocker. He’s bald (not by choice), he’s got a beard and a proper job in Marketing. He doesn’t wear leather or spandex, he showers regularly and I bet he’s never even seen an apple bong. When he showed up, he wasn’t wearing the usual shirt and tie I usually see him in, in fact, to my surprise, he was wearing a Metallica top. However, it was a preppy little Metallica jumper that looked like it had been designed by Tommy Hilfiger, bought for him by his girlfriend. I didn’t really expect much proper rocking out that evening, but he was persistent and fun to drink with, so I agreed.
The tour started with the usual suspects. I had never drunk at the Pit and Pendulum, the Angel or Foremans before and to be honest, they all produced (mostly) predictable results. Being surprised at finding Goths in the Pit is like being surprised looking in the Daily Mail and finding a story blaming Princess Di’s death on immigrants.
I suppose the same could be said about finding a skinhead in a Punk bar like Foremans, but it still shocked me when I saw one. I’ve seen This is England and have had someone try to explain to me the concept that you can be a skinhead in this country without being a racist, but I still don’t get it. The skins I’ve seen back home are more the curb-stomping American History X types, and they scare the ever-loving piss out of me. Trying not to make eye contact with him, my gaze wandered over the the other things Foremans has to offer. Like the Wall of the Dead or the do-it-yourself graffiti wall in the bog. It’s a weird little yellow place, but that’s what is good about it. If there is one thing it isn’t short of, it’s character; which is something that is missing from most of the soul-less hipster-wannabe chain bars across the street. Plus, the music was very good.
In the Angel, I found the scruffy old-school rocker types I was looking for, and I was starting to feel like it was 1990 again. John and I headed for the jukebox and to my surprise, the first album I saw staring straight back at me was the one that started it all, ...And Justice for All. I punched Blackened in and when it came on, I almost jumped out of my chair. My head was bobbing and I was about to throw the first goat I’d thrown in about 15 years when suddenly, the bartender skipped it, laughing about it to his mates. OK, I understand Metallica is about as mainstream as you can get when it comes to metal, but what are you taking the piss out of me for? It’s your bloody jukebox, fella.
We left the Angel and I had resigned myself to the fact that although we had a decent time, I still didn’t really feel like Nottingham was a particularly hard Rock town. Even Rock City were doing a wank 80s dance night. There certainly wasn’t enough for a column; I guessed I would have to find another Nottingham institution to diss instead (by the way, neither Jo and Twiggy’s break-up nor the closing of the Tales of Robin Hood are my fault, I swear). It was getting late, I was tired and I was half in the bag so I figured we’d call it a night. John wasn’t having any of it - he said he was saving the best for last; Heavy Metal Karaoke at the Ye Olde Salutation.
It didn’t exactly excite me; there are few things I hate more than Karaoke. It’s not so much the bad songs, the cheesy DJ or even the terrible singing that gets me down. What I hate most about Karaoke is Karaoke people. People who take it seriously. People who (thanks to Pop Idol and the X Factor) are convinced that the only reason they’re not famous is because they haven’t been discovered yet. People who are too deaf and stupid to realise that when they try to hit the high notes, it’s like a cat is being castrated and set alight. I personally think that the producers of the X Factor should be publicly stoned to death for allowing that Alexandra chick to release a karaoke version of quite possibly the most beautiful song ever written. It literally makes my ears bleed.
When we first arrived at Sal’s, it was like I stepped into my bedroom in 1990 again. It was dirty, there were tatty Maiden shirts hanging about and old Metal posters on the wall. One thing that was never in my bedroom back then, however, were the two (surprisingly attractive) girls singing Mr Brownstone. There was only ever one girl that ventured into my room back then, and her name was a three letter palindrome. This was much better.
Most people that went on stage looked the part. A skull tattoo here, a leather wristband there - I even saw a pink boa. Even John, air-guitaring and singing Seek and Destroy in his Metallicardy looked very Rock and Roll. But it wasn’t until Motley Crue Guy went on stage that I realised just how serious people in this town take the Rock. He had massive, jet-black hair, bandanna, ripped Dr Feelgood t-shirt, leather jacket, guy-liner and white jeans ripped at the crotch exposing tiger-print tights. He went on stage, screamed his face off and in an instant, I was pulled straight back to my metal youth. I had found Nottingham’s heart, and it was black.
It’s easy to mistake Nottingham for a clubber’s town with its disco ball-laden nightclubs, Friday nights of chavvy dudes in shirts and shoes openly snogging drunken, sparkly hussies and Saturday morning puke piles, but if you yank up Nottingham’s mini-skirt, you’ll find that it hides ripped fishnets and a big spiky codpiece. Thank God for that.
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In case you missed it in my MEDIA EXTRAVAGANZA blog entry, video of my buddy John doing Seek and Destroy, here it is again (PS - He kicks ass):
Click to viewThe Metallicardy is flopped over his chair at this point... he wore it during a different song. Sue me.