NOTE – Some of you disassociated fucks might read me prose and not be able to read ‘tween the lines on this one and dig that I dig Gareeda, urban as fuck, heathen as cunt – a fuel injected suicide machine.
A recent article in the Journal noted Edinburgh is ‘dull’ because of its beauty. Certainly, while in Glasgow all manner of fine-fingered freaks are likely to jump you, ‘specially staggering outta one of the less reputable venues; in the ‘Burgh you’re much more likely to be set about by cuntfaced generously proportioned American tourists hunting their ancestry and asking you where the Royal Mile is while standing on the fucking Royal Mile than by twitchy blood-junkies from the sub-basement; but the Athens of the North has a sub-basement all of its own. A vile and venomous tract, a sewer and cow run through the bowels of the city and racing out it’s open sphincter like the eye of a beer can, and up your daughter’s leg grinning and crying with a knife in its teeth. Here dwell the hairy-handed mountain men and illustrated long-time dope fiends strung out on Orange Goblin riffs to so long they delude themselves into thinking those same riffs are original, and copyright free. I doubt Orange Goblin are the sort to drop any legal action on these heads, or that these heads are in any way interested or able to deal with any such legal challenge. From this dank cavernous pit come four more bastards leering and stumbling up into the semi-respectable parts of the city scratching at their trousers and sucking the last of the smoke out of a Marlboro Red and waiting for optimum pupil dilation before growling at a pastel-shirted family of sightseers and ambling on into the night, looking for trouble, looking for a fix, looking for it.
|Gareeda at Studio 24, plastic bag yourself before they do|
Gareeda’s debut album, penned by Lord Bastard and Cunt Chieftain Tommy Concrete, archdrude to this bar-leaning hunchbacked misfit clan and least misshapen Deep One to crawl from the maw of Dagon and found Edinburgh’s essential Jackal-Headed Guard of the Dead, whose instrumental Lovecraftian lamentations sail closest to the corryvreckan of rural heathen transcendence; and whose lyrics cover a revolting and scarcely comprehensible series of twisted perversions and a panorama of sexual depravity which such encyclopaedic knowledge and anatomical detail that there is little doubt they are entirely factual – or existing in the limbo of fact and bullshit semi-autobiographical bullshit fictionese that pervades the minds of all full-time compound junkies. These clunkily-penned bragging tales are the broad maypole around which Gareeda’s debut album dances, while the rest of the musicianship languishes in a breathless Orange Goblin cover band playing the unlit tiny stage of some grimy north English/central belt Scots bar, as much a part of the Friday night décor as the ruined pool table or the hopeless faces of the gin gentry balanced between the stools and the bar; being listened to by nobody in particular until they finally snap at just the right chemical cocktail balance and decide to ramp up their amps to pint glass-shattering volumes and clear out the bar in a matter of minutes. Stu Lillis’ delivery of the vocals like a beer-swilling boast in the same bar (just before Arnold Hopeless and the Bluejean Motherfuckers take to the stage to tear things up in a post-junk volume freakout, he’s been drinking since 11am) between the three yellow tawny pub piano key teeth that make the smile of the storied drinking elite. The entire record, smells grimy, it’s a filthy gang of tramps desperate for booze money who’ve broken into Joe Hoare’s house and made off with all his best riffs and trying to fob them off down the crusty pub, it drags them right down, down lower than you thought you could go. Down where the bars open early and cash giro cheques; where prostitution is just another unglamorous part of an existence that has no hope. Down in the dark cavernous underbelly of this wretched city, the sun never shines.
|"An emporium of bams, in a bam emporium"|
Pick your taboo. Will you be offended by “she looks great in a leather balaclava”? or is “two bottles of vodka, four bottles of wine, eight grammes of mephedrone and she looks just fine” more not your speed? You might not want to spend time with these barely-caged psychopaths with clear substance abuse issues (I sure don’t, I’m a total pussy) but you have to accept Gareeda, and their debut, into your heart because in any world of frightened dullards, there is always a sorry shortage of outlaws; and these folk antiheroes are cheered on by student rebels, invited to parties held by intellectuals and professionals. We’re too frightened to be them, and try to absorb just some of their righteous energy by osmosis, or by repeated ingestion of their ur-Rock solution, pinched wholesale and polished better and offered to you in the dank corner of the bar where the damp creeps and the only light is from the fruit machine; and when you turn back to your friends whatever the tryptamine of the moment, it was a bad choice for this scene, Arnold Hopeless and the Bluejean Motherfuckers are just doing a soundcheck and you can see it all go down… fast and wild in some moments, slow and dirty in others, but on balance, wherever these guys take you, it’s looking like a bummer. Whatever offends you most, Gareeda probably consider it a quiet Thursday. The record bleeds authenticity; even if half of this jumped up hypermacho stuff is total bullshit, it’s drunks’ bullshit cooked up to cover up something even more vile he really did perpetrate. It’s Miskey Sabbath, or Billy Mud, a truly literary presence, and by association with his amorality, his vileness, his embrace of all that society deems bad and personification of ‘sordid’, we can ourselves vicariously ride the high with none of the hangover. My rule with any encounter with an Edinburgh mountain man is to believe everything he says without question, fuck knows what someone like that is hiding.
Grab it on Bandcamp! And go see a show kiddies!
Grab it on Bandcamp! And go see a show kiddies!
Written under duress by Steven. Happy 40th Concrete, ya cunt.