I know they were rubbish, but my god they were great at being rubbish. So they were a cartoon Killing Joke, with the guitarist with the blonde hair piled high, the bass player trying to make the best of a bad haircut and too much denim in his life, and the singer with the American Indian obsession who wished he was Jim Morrison. And I think he was, briefly, when The Doors reformed with him singing. I guess there was no point doing anything again after that, was there?
But this song. I saw them play at Selina’s in Coogee Bay, driving my little Corolla all the way across town by myself because I couldn’t convince anyone else of their epicness (perhaps unsurprisingly: I’m probably in the same boat right now) and borrowing my cousin’s leather jacket for the night. I walked in, a bloke clocked the coat and asked me if he could score some smack, and the show started. I was down in the mosh pit, as was my way back then, and we were all being thrown from pillar to post before the beer glasses from the back started to rain down during this song. I watched as a few of them landed before the bloke next to me got dropped by one to the head, realised discretion was the better part of valour and started to move back, but something made me look up.
There was one glass, thrown from right in the back, and it seemed to fly in slow motion: I stopped and watched, hypnotised along with everyone else, as it described a curve over my head. I looked towards the stage as Ian bloody Astbury watched it fly over his head, over the guitarist behind him, and land right on the snare just as the beat breaks for the final bit of the song, and the entire venue roared as one at the sheer perfection of that moment.
I had a tape of this album in the car, but I couldn’t hear it the whole way home, so much were my ears ringing. And I think they continued for most of the next day, too. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6PgftKbQnQ