People often ask me why I chose Bath. In an ocean of galaxies, containing an ocean of stars, containing countless habitable (and not so habitable) worlds, I Galmorphagorph chose a small town in the west of England in which to avoid those who seek to imprison or destroy me. The reason is simple. Earth is unfathomably dull.
In the trans-galactic community Earth is a lonely waterlogged ball of mewling infantile civilisations, so bewildered and in awe of the shape and function of the universe that most seek to avoid thinking about it altogether. Extra-Planetary beings such as myself visit this place much in the same way you’d visit the Lake District or hike up one of your several unremarkable mountains. It’s just a thing to do on the weekend and for the most part you’re just ruining the scenery with your loudly coloured wind-breakers. Bath reflects that dullness in its beige architecture and its unique absence of any kind of meaningful struggle. If you seek a space criminal, you wouldn’t start by checking the information centre at the base of this galaxies ‘Ben Nevis’. Though… if they ever do, Humanity is of course doomed.
It was therefore a surprise when, perched as I often am in a tree, I was slapped in the face by a flyer for a ‘Punk night’ caught in the gusts of Hurricane Doris. The small square of paper greeted me with four middle-aged men grinning goofily and with a subtle mischief that suggests they’d just urinated in my drink and were waiting to see if I’d noticed. ‘CULTURE SHOCK with special guests Best of British Suicide, Skinners and Atterkop. I am at best only glancingly familiar with the concepts, music, culture and history of Punk, so what better way to inform myself then to dive into the belly of this particular Uuthyan Fangbeast and destroy it from within? That Friday night, I made for The Nest.
The Nest remains unchanged from my last visit, save for the puddle on the floor which has since been downgraded from ‘Gushing torrent’ to ‘Minor Spillage’, though charmingly it still remains. Having observed a laughable attempt at science fiction through a strangers window, I was inspired to disguise myself as a human by wearing ones skin. It didn’t take me long to find an Estate Agent. Wearing his skin took some trial and error, and while I may not have looked particularly appealing, I was passable. The Nest is dark, and I quickly discovered that at Punk events, a healthy complexion is, if anything, a sign of weakness. Tattoos, dreadlocks and faces seemingly hewn from the living rock were rife. I wonder that I may not have even needed the skin suit after all.
The man on the door requested 10 English pounds for entry. I whispered to him one of the ‘9 Cosmic Truths’, and in his incapacitated, frothing moment of supreme comprehension I slipped in without paying.
The first band on were SKINNERS, who the flyer described as ‘Spazzed-out hardcore punk from Bath’. All of those self-descriptors were appropriate, but the one’s I’d use would be altogether more accurate. A frizzy haired drummer thundered away behind his drum kit, the guitarist and bassist seemed like children nervously looking at their parents during a school play. The singer, shirtless and lithesome screamed inaudibly through their songs which lasted about as long as it took to introduce them.
‘Right, this song is about going to London, sleeping on people’s couches and getting scabies’
‘This song is called Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck’
This demented and near orgiastic display of cacophonous noise and offensive language was so blatant in its intention that I almost had to respect it, until I realised it was going to be quite a while before they stopped. This was truly a singer at war with his audience, and a backline at war with themselves.
Following that was BEST OF BRITISH SUICIDE, a band name inviting you to roll your eyes so hard that it gives you a headache. The Drummer, while impressive, showed disproportionate commitment to the music being performed, however his deft drumming and relentless work ethic left me impressed. The bassist looked to the singer for guidance, and the guitarist/singer proceeded to bathe the room in tuneless passive aggression for 30 straight minutes. Like a Payroll Accountant and Jarvis Cocker got fused together in a teleportation accident, the songs were listless and decidedly lacking in bite. If the first band were all about assaulting your senses, this band were all about sighing loudly until your senses move out of their way in the staff kitchen.
The main support was Atterkop, a deft and extremely well rehearsed ska-punk band: the musicians were tight, the singer was energetic, the whole thing was completely unmemorable. If punk is so known for its messy, raw passionate expression, seeing a band play with such mathematical precision seems to rob the music of that which defines it. Sometimes music can be too perfect, and no better example is there than Punk that greatness can be found in imperfection.
Finally, the headlining act, CULTURE SHOCK! The four middle-aged grinning flyer-men took the stage and began to play. They, I understand, are legends in the scene, forged in the fires of an era ruled by a cold and merciless, inexplicably elected sub-queen who’s profound effect on the economy and society are still felt today; an era that you seem to be willingly repeating out of some sort of perverse masochistic nostalgia to a time when there was something fun to culturally kick against. Seeing these weathered, gnarled men giving it their all stoked my appetite. Truly this is a Band who’s mere physical countenance makes you yearn for cured meat.
What they also sated was my hunger for knowledge, and in watching these four pieces of pale screaming chorizo howl jubilantly through their 80s punk oeuvre and routinely rebuke the audience for their addiction to ‘The Media’, I found myself stirred. I looked at the young men and women hurling themselves around and on top of the audience, the old Punk stalwarts in grimaced and focused meditation as they swung their heads and felt for the first time my wanting to join them. They awoke in me my sense of righteous anger, at the Galactic Parliament who’s lies are poisoning the minds of the outer systems. Of the sycophantic Th’uls and their pathetic appeasement of the Star-Eater. Many may disagree with the actions I took that led to my exile, but for once I realised that in some form, each band was speaking my language (though not literally, for humans lack the trifurcated tongue), the language of rage. Also the music was pretty good.
I walked the streets that night for a while, gazing upon the homogenous limestone that comprises most of Bath’s structure, bathed in sodium street light under a starless sky. This time, however, the City had a different and more vibrant hue. Earth may seem a dull little marble in an infinite cosmos, but its lowly inhabitants can paint their music with a colour that even I, until tonight, had yet to see: the colour of rebellion. It’s bold, its messy, and it’s always in their palette so long as they never forget to use it, and I believe there’s never been a better time to begin wetting their brushes. I, Galmorphagorph, shall enjoy watching that.
Written by @G_Morph
Reviewed on 24 February 2017
- Galmorphagorph goes to the Nest
- Galmorphagorph at the Kingsmead Sq jazz and blues festival
- Galmorphagorph reviews party in the city in Queen Sq