Electric Wizard, The Scala, King’s Cross 070909

Image © 2009 Garth Jones

Things what I learned at tonight’s Electric Wizard gig at the Scala, King’s Cross (look them up yourself; I’m on holidays):

+ Geezer metal fans are just as insufferable, if not more so, than their Antipodean counterparts. Weed fuelled ticket queue discussions of Matt Pike’s supposed intricate circuit board like musical blueprint for Sleep’s ‘Dopesmoker’ album not required, not are ruminations on one’s own band’s inability to write instrumentals longer than the Banana Splits theme tune.

+ Regardless, everyone is unfailingly polite, understands bar etiquette, the notion of personal space and, inexplicably, smells really, really good.

+ Scalpers attempting to secure contraband from punters standing in line to pick up their fucking tickets should clearly choose an alternative revenue stream as a matter of utmost haste.

+ Gig security, diminished Dorian Yateses though they may be, are affable in the extreme, safe in the knowledge that, wallet chain or no, when it comes to the crunch, they could easily and quite cheerfully smelt said accessory with a sidewise glance, then bone the wearer of like the proverbial, umn, aquatic thing that gets boned.

+ Two double whiskeys on the rocks? Will that be all, sir?

+ Forty seven minutes of recycled Sabbath riffs, comely lady SG slinger and everything considered, scrapes the limits of even my scabbed over and well tested ‘absolute homage’ threshold.

+ On the other hand, if said homage is delivered by an earnest, bewitching Canadian wood nymph in a crushed velvet, Renaissance Fair inspired fairy outfit who’s penned several irony free odes to Pan and busts out myriad parping, Ian Anderson threatening flute solos, then colour me, at the very least, entertained…+ I have inexplicably begun to refer to all and sundry as ‘guv’, having been on continent for all of seventy two hours.
+ I must live for an extended period of time in King’s Cross. It smells like inevitable.
Tomorrow: tattoos?