Another show which has managed to hold it’s grip on the slimy walls of my memory bank, was the jig in Paris. Something of a debacle, to coin a French term. Our scheduled performance here was moved to a different venue with two days’ notice. A very different venue. A venue the size of a well appointed latrine, with a home stereo system for a p.a, one microphone stand, and run with cartoonish arrogance by a French “rocker”. When I say “rocker”, I refer to a particular brand of rocker we often come across throughout Europe. The creeper-wearing, denim clad, “eight ball” rocker, with the pocket-chains and the super-glued quiff. This particular feller didn’t even know we were playing at his bar it seemed. We figured that if the owner of the establishment wasn’t aware of the show, not many other people would be either.
Turns out it was more “Tardis” than latrine, as we managed to cram about fifty lucky chain-smokers into the venue, all gasping for air, and all gasping for the right words to describe the incandescent flare that is The Drones live show. “Very noisy”, somebody finally suggests.
I've seen the Drones play twice, now. Once in a really fantastic gig, and once as part of a festival, where they were less than fantastic.
It remains, however, that I dig their music, a kind of rough, blood and guts kind of pub rock, with lots of guitars, screams and, perhaps surprisingly, darkly intelligent lyrics. There's a bunch of tracks on their myspace page, which you can sample, but they've also got a blog, which is kept by guitarist Dan Luscombe, and which I reckon is pretty fucking funny. The quote above is from it.