As a first time visitor to 93 Feet East, none of the dire warnings from more dedicated gig-going friends seemed particularly justified (although, to be fair, they were mainly related to the sound system having unkindly mutilated Jack on their last visit). Like all the best London venues, there's a quietish, modish bar where you can talk to some of those who've predictably turned up to watch the same band as yourself and there's also a nice big dancefloor/stage next door where you can avoid the rest. The former does, however, feature sofas of a dangerous placement and comfort level which tend to entrap anyone trying to leave early to catch one of the many unhelpful Tube lines from Aldgate East (Whitechapel, District and Circle - late night sleazy creaking trains that linger unhealthily around Barbican).
Joan of Ass: not that funny to start with, but bearing in mind there's a concurrent Joan of Arse AND a possible exact namesake, the naming of bands is clearly becoming more and more of an issue as every vague religious connotation, Sixties cult TV reference and small-change consumer item gets claimed. It now seems hideously short-sighted to have complained about prosaic acts such as Regular Fries, if this is what we get in their stead.
J of A were described to me earlier in the day as "scary electro porn" or some such epithet. In case you were hoping this meant human depths and erotic heights a la "Sex Dwarf"... it doesn't. Comparisons from the floor have thus far ranged from 'Bis covering Chumbawamba' to 'Sheep On Drugs in a car crash with the B52s', although to my own ears they more resembled Daphne & Celeste gone horribly wrong. Starting quite interestingly by playing hockey with beer cans in front of the stage, they soon degenerated into standing in a neat line screeching "Who's your daddy now?!!" in front of a projection of an anonymous man molesting what appeared to be some undercooked chicken, still with its feet attached. And it was at this point that the nice quiet bar became suddenly very appealing.
Baxendale were the star attraction of the night, but on the evidence of the first half of the set - work next morning plus late start impaired the rock'n'roll instinct and demanded we leave early - they seemed to be limping rather. I should confess I've never really got Baxendale: they have the look of an indie band dressed up in the baseball caps and harmony-singing-with-token-instruments of a pop band, and irrespective of whether they mean what they sing (which fans of my acquaintance claim they do), it doesn't always sound that way. As always, it's a problem of context... if I wasn't aware of them, I can't imagine the impression I'd get from their appearing under the aegis of Strange Fruit only to reel off a squirmishly titled 'Your Body Needs My Sugar' and various other singles, looking all the while like they're in search of a roadshow but stuck in the back room of a pub. So it's all a bit uncomfortable. Their frontman looks pissed off for the duration, anyway.
The difference between this and a really commercial pop band is that with Baxendale you get what you see, glossless singing and all, and my enjoyment of them is always a little impaired by the sarcastic way Tim Benton's vocals tend to come out. They probably do mean it, though, and so it's a shame. Tonight Senay is drunk and horizontal whilst the stage is used as a causeway by random men from the dressing room. Only the cute keyboardist remains unflappable.
Apparently they're not as good live as they used to be.
