the setting: the gaelic club, where the floor is always sticky. an extremely self-conscious “band” called the kills is artfully jerking itself about on stage. they are tiresome to begin with and then quickly yet gradually improve and then possibly become tiresome again. i lose track. there are many many studded belts in the room, the most i’ve seen gathered in a single location, except for the accessories rack at sportsgirl.
but we are really here to see hot hot heat. there are many enthusiastic girls up front, one group with ziggy stardust haircuts and sharp tailoring and another in netting and stripy knits. nellie has learnt all the lyrics by heart and is ready to go woo as required. hot hot heat play like a cartoon band, with struttin’ and tight jeans and sweat exploding out of hair like a fireworks display, and as nellie says, all the members look like duckie. which is untrue because there is the bass player who has a rockstar thing going and manages to keep his big north american rock hair perfectly bouffant through the night (where “night” is an efficient forty-five minute set).
who doesn’t like bass players?
