This is their place.
And if you want it to be your place too, you just need to turn right out of Brixton station, right again, and then down a big, long, dark artery congealed with fish shops and railway arches. After that, it's through the doors, past the booths, left before the pool table and up the stairs. If you're in Jo B's 50th birthday party, you've gone too far. Put down that drink. It's not yours.
Presumably, like them, you're here for a single reason. You're a
person who likes their music served on a stage, by people who you can touch, see and occasionally smell, without having to peel them off the screen of a Mac laptop like a warranty sticker.
You like the idea of stuffing new and unusual music into your lugholes on a given night. You're bored of DJs, tired of jumpin' beats, and sick of the vacuum-packed, ready-washed one-size-fits-all gig-goer-as-faceless-consumer experience. And you're inspired by the thought that, while you might have to listen to a few rounds of dull-witted strumming, you might - just might - discover someone or something that will have you humming all the way home.
This may not be the night for Dogstar audiences. But it just as easily could be. And, let's be fair, if you prefer the drum kit to the DJs, you take your chances with what you can get.
"There really aren't that many places for rock gigs in Brixton,
especially when you're starting out", said Nathan Carter of the 9s, the band pulling the strings of this "Atomic Records" night. "We try and get two local bands in a month, and two from further away. We moved here from Wimbledon in July, and the Dogstar has been great to us."
Nathan had been in another band before, and had built up a bit of a following. Earlier this year, he set up a new act, and had to start over. But instead of relying on the world to come to the phone and shower them with one-hour slots, The 9s cultivated a little regular spot for themselves here. In Miss Havisham's drawing room.
While the second floor of the Dogstar is generously devoted for one night a month to the stylings of various bands, it's not the sort of space you'd immediately associate with rock. Or, hell, maybe it is, because it seems to have been designed for village hall meetings before being rudely squatted by instruments.
Wooden planks line the floor. A few church pews loiter against the far wall. There's a large ornate mirror behind the stage, covered with what looks like Indian Elvis' rhinestoned sari. There are watercolour pictures of animals near the door. Somewhere, behind the cloth-covered table bearing home-made CDs, there may be a lost old lady, stuffing her ears with tombola tickets and cursing the day Billy scarpered at the altar.
Nathan, and assorted other organisers, are nestled just to the side of the double swing doors, collecting the entrance fee from behind a pulpit. The levels guy is at the back, near the upper-floor bar. He has a big wooden spoon jutting out of the top of his mixing desk, which turns out to be a homing beacon for the lady who arrives with pizza midway through the soundcheck. I've never ordered a pizza during a gig before, but surely there's mileage in the concept? After all, I'm sure Trent Reznor wouldn't have objected to hurling an American Hot out into Wembley Arena, and if the average gig-goer can support
the weight of a blubbery crowd-surfing motherfucker with dribbling armpits, a 12" deep pan should be a breeze.
MONSTERS IN THE ATTIC were due to start at 8.30pm, but they've got a bus load of friends being menaced by traffic, so we're waiting. We're drinking, pawing the merchandise, chatting, and wishing there was a tombola, just to pass the time. But at 9pm, they're set up and off the mark with some Offspring style harmonies. Monsters in the Attic may be following tried-and-trusted rock commandments that came down from the mountain, but they're doing it in the knowledge that if they travel
from A to B at the right pace, they're not going to get any
complaints. After all, your bus journey may not be the most exciting one in the world, but nobody likes the creative fucker that hooks handbrake turns for no reason and stops for 20 minutes in the drive-thru because he skipped lunch. Sometimes, people will like you for doing what you're meant to do, and doing it well.
I like Monsters in the Attic. In fact, I'm putting my sticky Gold Star for the evening right on their grubby T-shirts. They're loud, they've got a nice line in mixing punky American rock with bug-zapped retro numbers, and they don't seem to have a buzzing grub up their arses from having to play first. There aren't a huge amount of people here to see them, but it's their loss.
That said, a lot of people are pretty keen on THE 9S too. They're
constantly thanking them and toasting them like grateful guests at an outdoor barbecue, while the three-piece metaphorically drift in and out of earshot with plates of blackened sausages. After all, if they weren't doing the legwork, no one would be bouncing around in this strange room at the south of the Northern Line. The band themselves are a few months old, and a few nights honing their skills in the company of friends will do them a world of good.
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So what's the hook for The 9s? They're a three-piece with a singing bassist. They don't have no time for no keyboards, man. Or people who wear shorts on stage, apparently. Or second guitarists. They're packing some decent influences, from AC/DC to Queens of the Stone Age, and they've already got some songs in their armoury.
The flaw right now is that the riffs lack finesse, which makes them sound occasionally repetitive. Sometimes, that awkwardness thaws with familiarity. And they'll get another chance to swing out their set on December 19, when they return to the Dogstar lineup.
Another band who'll be back in Brixton that night are SPECTRUM 7, who have 900 guitarists. They also have that whiff about them, the Lynx-strength odour of the Up and Coming Thing. A sizeable group of people have just turned up to watch them, and pretty much every single one will go when they stop. They are now at the stage where they can refer to songs as "our first single". They have a very shiny looking CD cover on their site, which can be bought attached to a CD that is Out Now. They have Kerrang and Rock Sound quotes on their Facebook page, containing phrases such as "future stars in the making" and.. (hurl)..."ambient soundscapes" (fuck you Kerrang. Now I have to
buy a second lunch).
They're tight, but it's not all there yet. Spectrum 7 quote influences such as Nine Inch Nails and Deftones, but at the moment they're somewhere softer, somewhere more polite. They're currently passing through My Chemical Romance terrority, with the keyboardist occasionally slipping behind a Mac and one of the guitarists leaping on top of the amps for a better view.
The first amendment of the Spectrum 7 constitution states that every man should have the right to bear guitars. There are often four on stage at one time, and sometimes there's also a need to strum the bass. Of the four bands, the songs are probably the most polished. They have left turns and right turns, and segments and riffs and harmonies. The sound isn't nearly as original as it said in the booklets, but then in the world of music it rarely is. Of all the bands here, they're the ones who want you to know that they're Working On Something. Whatever it is that they're knitting, they may have to be patient and grow into it first.
Which leaves us with MUNROE EFFECT. And with tinitus. Munroe Effect travelled all the way here from Portsmouth, but we probably could still have heard them fine from there. Essentially, they're the band you'd hire to play at grandma's birthday if you wanted her to cough up the inheritance quicker.
A band like this requires a very special type of singer. The type of singer for whom "singing" is shorthand for "I'm going to start the fucking apocalypse on my own. Where's that fucking tyre iron?". Munroe Effect has a singer like this, who can handle his notes when necessary but is much more comfortable hurling them against the wall. Only tonight, he's literally doing this. For 90 per cent of the set.
It's an odd experience to see a singer in a small room yelling every song at the drummer. You feel unsettled, like you've just wandered in unannounced on your uncle dancing in your mother's wedding dress. You should probably cough or something. But the bassist knows you're there, because he's grinning at you with a look of sweaty ecstasy and the guys in hats at the front are surely making enough noise to have attracted their attention by now.
Munroe Effect love noise. They create noise, they roll around in it, the singer jigs all over it like an angry leprechaun, and the drummer beats it to death with a callous swing of his clubs. Maybe this isn't the place for "meandering schizophrenic post post hardcore", with its strange mirrors and static crowds. I can't say that I really took to it on the night, but I've since listened to a few songs online and they're growing on me.
Maybe that's what we're all here for. Maybe that's why some of us will come back.
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