There was the option of spending one more night enjoying the delights of old Bagnigge's pleasure gardens down beyond the Saddlers Wells on the other side of the Reservoir atop the Penton Rise which is filled with water from the New River that flows into it. Instead, we chose to once more spend an evening listening to the musical delights of The Lexington.
Ah and what delights we find upon entering! We find this good evening's compere is just starting to introduce the first act of the evening who have traveled all the away from Dalston and due to the awful weather conditions had to be carried across the waste at Kingsland as the effluvia was waist deep. 'Tis a miracle they are so well turned out in their finery for this evening's performance, then.
The trio of Luciferians are of course using Satan's own musical configuration of One gentleman singing and playing an acoustic guitar, another gentleman known as Paul Snakecraft playing an 8 string lap steel guitar and a fair maiden playing a Sousaphone. If this combination will not summon the Devil from Dalston to Islington I know not what will.
They begin with an ode to the demon alcohol called I do believe You're Just As Drunk as I. Well had you been carousing all week as a real gentleman should, you would know that it is exactly the state we expect of you by a Friday night. Neverthelss, it is a perfect start to proceedings. The singer of this Devilish Trio One Paul-Ronney Angel then proclaims it is time to sing about his Walking Stick. I wished to argue that a man of his stature should have a Hunting stick, but never mind this is one fine tune with a wondrously eerie lap steel guitar as the band conjure up the Bayous of the Regents Canal and promene through Ridley Road.
Soon enough, Lady Ane Angel's sousaphone is laying down the rhythm for Love Me Or Die: an ode to the lusts of fine gentlemen everywhere. The band seem to wish to take flight on the next selection, a very fine version of Sleepwalk more in the style of Ritchie Valens than Joe Satriani thankfully. During it, Paul Snakecraft really came into his own. The band then launched into Guns Of Dalston with a brilliant sousaphone solo laying down the beat supplemented by the audience participation and then the band came in and the house appeared to be skanking along rather nicely.
The following selection came from that old troubadour Tom Waits and is Dead and Lovely: a tune that is perfectly suited to the Devil Trio. They made the tune their own with some inspired lap steel playing and grizzled vocals. They followed it with a wonderfully slow and majestic version of Warren Zevon's Carmelita that certainly had something in common with GG Allin's version even if Paul-Ronney's vocals are deeper and more resonant while I'm sure GG had taken a bit more Heroin on the outskirts of town than this trio have managed so far.
They closed a most entertaining set with a rousing gospel sing along of Jesus On The Mainline that was rather more spirited than the versions of this traditional song mustered by both Ry Cooder or Aerosmith. It was a fitting end to a most cool set.
After the shortest of breaks it was time for some rather louder entertainment brought to us by KREMATED with a capital K as our host for the evening pointed out more than once. They are a new band at the forefront of the New Bottom movement otherwise known as the New Wave of British Thrash Metal (NWOBTM, anyone?) and they did indeed bring the thrash to us at at as loud a volume as could be contained within such walls as these.
After their opening overture of aural assault by electric guitar, they launched into the coruscating Bulletproof: a song seemingly put together from the remains of Damage Inc by members of the Academy: a point rammed home further on Total Warfare, a song that pounded your eardrums with echoes of the Dead Kennedys' Chemical Warfare.
It was good to see Phil Roberts on guitar, shredding the hell out of it during Mechanized Bloodbath. That's a song that owed a just a smidgen to Reign In Blood as Pete fairly spat his vocals at us at 1000 miles an hour before claiming that every man jack of us were bastards. How very dare he. Oh no, that's right, he said we weren't but that everyone who didn't show up tonight was, so that's ok then. The tune itself was a monstrous riffage fest, ripping at the bowels of Beelzebub and rattling all our ear drums
This was followed by a sad paean to a friend who found a final solution called I've Had Enough and well I don't think most of the audience had had enough yet, not by quite some distance, and I'm hoping anyone going down that road might hear this tune and think again. They closed with a song that has quickly become the bands signature tune, Thrash Ain't Dead. It's a great thrashing, riffing sing-a-long monster of a tune to make sure that Thrash is indeed not dead but bring revived by these nice Kremated chaps.
Soon enough our host was back before us and asking for volunteers for public humiliation. The first gent to succumb to this had to hold a newspaper before him while this host whipped said paper in two and then repeated said act until the piece of paper was about the size of a sugar cube wrapper. This was followed by two volunteers who checked how sharp the nails on his bed of nails were before our host laid down upon the bed and encouraged his two volunteers to stand on him: a feat of derring do that left some deep marks on his back but he was still more than able to introduce this evenings next act: WILL HODGSON.
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Will is a rather funny and self-deprecating stand-up comedian who had most of the audience in fits of laughter for almost all of his set, indeed a top turn who was perfect to whet our appetites ahead of this evenings headliners.
Yes it was time once more for THE MEN WHO NOT BE BLAMED FOR NOTHING to grace us with their presence. They of course began with a lesson for us all in the form of the correct etiquette for enjoying a band such as theirs and the need to ensure that manners maketh the man: a fact I remember having rammed into my brain at a very young age indeed. That lesson learnt, we all clapped wildly and the Men continued with a sorry tale about our good Queen Victoria's Secret and how dark a secret it is too. Poor old Albert is a Zombie - I can scarcely believe what I'm hearing. Whatever next?
Well if it isn't a battle cry for that most put upon of political flotsam, the Whigs. Yes we all certainly wish to Fuck the Tories, terrible scum that they are, but will we all really be Doing it for the Whigs as Mr Andy Heintz is suggesting? I'm not so sure, but either way it is a rollicking fine tune.
It must by now be time to go to the seaside and to play the bands most recent release: a Stick of rock in praise of the Margate Fhtagn wherein didn't they have a lovely day the day they met Cthulu in the sea at Margate. Well of course they did. By the time Cthulu was finished with them they needed to consult the People's Common Sense Medical Advisor to seek help for the many Ailments that Andrew O'Neill and Marc Burrows were suffering from. it appeared that the main problem was of course there avowed love of Onanism, such a destructive disease, send them off to Bedlam this moment - it is the only proper course and yes you do need to be able to play a Musical Saw to have any chance of avoiding such a fate.
It has come to our notice that it may well be time to figure out how to get to the Moon and as we are atop a hill what better place to get into our Hot Air Balloon and go to the moon. Oh and we may indeed be in need of the services of Boilerplate Dan to fire up that balloon to get us on our way. Still dear old Dan certainly stirred up large parts of the audience to go just a little bit mental as if they have had a whiff or two too many of the Great Stink. Certainly anyone going near to the suburb of Hell would be more than in need of dear old Bazalgette's plans to ease London's suffering for the princely sum of £3 Million. Who could argue, well many men did but they were soon shown for the fools they were.
Yes, all we need now is some light provided by one of those new-fangled Tesla Coils so that we can see and treat the wounds of the Common Soldiery properly before they realise they have more in Common with those they are asked to kill than the politicians and officers sending them to battle. Damn ingrates and plebs that have no desire to shed some Blood Red for the cause of the Empire that shall never set. They just wish to put on their goggles and dress up and go out on the town the scoundrels. Pah!
Don't they realise that in the course of making the Empire complete by perpetual war making will also allow good old Charlie Darwin to go and make a few discoveries to make us look good and scientific too? Anyway, all the while that nice Jez Miller is pounding out the beats upon his drums as if we are indeed marching off to Sevastopol rather than pondering the suggestion from Mr Heintz that Jesus was in fact a Cockney and that rather than have an actual encore we should just all sing-along to the fact that Jesus was a fucking cockney. Well if you insist Mr Heintz, and you can stop brandishing that saw at us we are all singing along as you requested.
They just about had time left to celebrate that most marvellous of men, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, before departing to thunderous applause at the close of a great evening's entertainment.
We just about had time left to go down the hill to the lighthouse for some Oysters before finding a carriage home once more.
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