What's that you say, dear readers? You're... you're desperately soliciting anecdotes from an annoying old person? To help smooth the edges of an incoming monday? Well, I've twice seen this song turn a deteriorating party around and if you've ever been to a darksided occasion that's really sliding southwards, you'll know that's no small thing. The first time was in a derelict two-story place by the Avon in Christchurch where so many people were catatonic that it looked like the dead outnumbered the living, but as soon as the band in the backyard worked through their repertoire to this single, everyone was magically roused and poured out through the window slash door like someone had started a fire in the toilet. Deliberately this time. I don't think I've ever seen so many crazy smiles, sloppy dancing fails and spontaneous projectile vomiting in a six by six metre square area, and probably never will again.
The second time was at a birthday in a practice hall on Bedford Row; there'd been a scuffle or two, the birthday boy was operatic-fighting with his ex and things weren't going well. My boo had been hustled into playing VU covers (something he detested), was already twitching and scowling thunderously as a result and by the time the first plastic cup of Stone's Green Ginger Wine had flown past his head, he'd had a fucking nough. Aborting Venus in Furs, he scragged the lead guitar and snarled just like heaven, no fucking intro (bassists, lol) and off they went, lurching into a dreadfully mistimed and heavily ad-libbed version. That was an heroic degree of magnanimity on his part since he was a staunch Banshees man, but the punters were appeased, the liquid critique was stopped in its tracks and the last time I saw the birthday boy he was getting what looked like a pretty thorough pants exam by a lovely and enthusiastic stranger.
This is the power of a truly great dumb song. Do you still love it too?