I loved Goodbye Mr. Mackenzie when I was a youth, travelling across Scotland to go to their gigs. I was at Tower Records in Argyll Street when they launched 'Hammer and Tongs' getting my cassette tape insert signed by all the band. I even attended their last ever gig at the Garage in Glasgow, hoping Shirley might return but she didn't.
I didn't know their main man, Martin Metcalfe, was still gigging until I saw the advert for tonight's gig on FB. Snapping up two tickets for what turned out to be a less than sold out performance (with a bit of confusion in advance over whether a Paypal receipt counted as a ticket - I didn't know the Bungalow didn't send out confirmations), I went along to my first ever gig at this particular venue.
It is small. Intimate might be a nicer description. From the back of the room to the stage is maybe ten feet (and still some plonkers stood right in front of us - serves me right for wanting something to lean on).
The support act, 'In the Plughole', came on at 8.30pm and played some neat punk tunes for about 45mins. The big bloke singing had a great earthy voice and sweated like a fountain. His obesity had me worried he might suffer a coronary. Enjoyable though - the tunes, not the fear of a heart attack.
When I saw Martin walking about near the merch table, I didn't recognise him with his long beard, bald head and sunglasses. Dressed all in black, he could have just been some tall, trendy punter. Then I heard him speak, his East coast brogue still strong, and it clicked who he was.
Playing a semi-acoustic set, Martin and his three Fornicators began at the beginning with the first Mackenzie album. Hearing him sing sent me back in time. My body remained planted in the present, jiggling and singing along, but my mind went back to 1989, listening to those tapes and later CDs, the lyrics coming back like it was yesterday.
They played lots from the first two albums plus an Angelfish track, the title song from the "New Town Killers" soundtrack, which Martin co-write with director and Skids lead singer Richard Jobson, and a cover of Walk on the Wildside, finishing on a rousing 'Amsterdam', all in giving us almost ninety minutes of fresh memories.
The crowd, no more than two-score-and-ten in number and probably mostly around that in age, were suitably appreciative, with only a little jeering over Martin's frequent mentioning of Glasgow instead of Paisley.
A good night.
The one thing I didn't understand was why the venue didn't turn off the flat screen tv that was beside the stage. My eyes were often drawn to the BBC News channel with its live subtitles distracting me from the performance. I didn't need to see the latest Trump fiasco, the Novachok victim tributes or the Open highlights. It was a gig. Give some respect to the band. Seeing the clock was handy though.
(photos not great as I had to zoom between the four heads in front).
