The Mekano Set

A man walks breathless and sweating onto an empty stage. His clothes are in shreds. After taking a moment to catch his breath, he gasps out the plays only line of dialogue:

Gorillas move really fast...

{Written by Mr. Rollo Kim}

The Mekano Set
xxx

It's wednesday night. We are back in East London.

In my head, the sound of a duet. "All Flowers In Time". Liz Fraser from The Cocteau Twins and her then 'special friend' Jeff Buckley. Wicked tune but dead sad. They were / are both beautiful and have mad voices and are / were mad. He was cool and he died. She was cool and has sort of disappeared a bit. They swapped secret journals and lord knows what else. Blessem. We have a gig. It's going really well but I am a little distracted. It's been one of those weeks. But come on boy, it's gig time. The hotel is booked, the night is young, let us away!

Then on stage, Flame On, sounding really ace - a lot better than I remembered from before. Urgent, driving post-rock with drum n' bass tinged beats, vibrant-shiny guitar chords and chiming, minimal-groovy bass lines. A delicious contrast between the male and female vocals. It was good to play with them again and we had a laugh taking the piss out of the usual crappy gig experiences. Bless you Flames.

Eskimo Disco seemed really cool too. I liked the way they were using live and digital drums. At this point I was helping to frighten away some drunks at the door so it was a bit of a blur. But I got the feeling that their hearts were in the right places. Nice one Inuits.

In attempting to appear 'in our faces', for real, nihilistic and somewhat deranged, The Walk Off actually appeared like a gang of drunken bullies. Their dancer turned out to be someone in a bear costume. The vocalist spent the set singing into the faces of the audience and attempting to drag people around. They were apparently playing along to an iPod which was at least kind of amusing.

We didn't get a soundcheck. Which was tricky - as our set-up is simple but abnormal, but not really the end of the world. Instead of a soundcheck, we got:

"Yeah... well this is Patrick and his bass is the lead instrument, can you make it really really loud? And the drums? Really loud? Really really loud? And turn Milk's mic almost off cause he's like... a bit loud, and can you make Beth loud in the monitors but not loud in the PA?"

"Right, OK. So... loud."

Not sure why but I kept taking it upon myself to eject these drunk old guys that kept turning up. Nobody else seemed to notice that the sober, lone girl at the door was no match for their massed, toxic, free-wheeling antics and drink-enhanced abilities to walk through and over other people. I was in a bit of a mood as a concequence. Much more than was really warranted and I knew this even at the time. I think maybe I was just a bit wary that I might have to play while these guys ranted and got in fights with imaginary enemies and stuff. Actually, in situations like this, old drunk guys like these often try and kiss me. What can I tell you? It's a gift.

These guys were so out of it they were almost enlightened. Like how the eye of a storm is supposed to be dead calm and peaceful. Bloody noses, coats soaked in... moisture... bruises, eyes rolling, trying to blag their way in by selling the door-girl a portable stereo or claiming to be famous in exchange for entrance but too plastered to form anything even remotely resembling sensible words.

"This is my first night." She said, suggesting they try the electric goods store 'that way'... "they'll buy it... definitely..."

Then a real life Archie 'oldest game in the world innit, eh?' arrived.

This inebriated "semi-pro Frank Sinatra impersonator" introduced himself as "Tony the Blade". A real-life oldschool cockney geezer! They could have put this guy on the bill, handed him a mic. It could have been great. No irony there. He would have been entertaining:

Straw-like blow-dried grey hair, sovereign rings, grey imitation leather bomberjacket, leather slip-on-shoes, and a missing piece of little finger on one hand:

"I'm Tony the Blade... and can I just say - I fakin lav you... you could let me in fer naffink cause I do me Frank Sinatra routine at ver wearinmens clab rahnd ver cow-nah... gawd bless ya.

And look at me, my smile or sense of well being is working: I am pressing him out of the door and he isn't even trying to stop me. I just hope he doesn't try to kiss me.

"No? Well I don't care abaht you... or you birds... your a khaaant... your a khaaant your a khaaant khaaant khaaant!!!!" He exclaimed as my expression turned from {probably not very} subtly repressed amusement to a sort of overtly embarrassed empathy. "Never set foot in arrrr clab or yous a fakkin dead maaahhyynn..." Oh well. He obviously realized he couldn't win me over so instead he tried to slam the door on my fortunately heavily-booted foot a few more times, and then trundled off, just someone's dear old grandad once again.

Shame. Cause I was so looking forward to a few halves of Watney's Red Barrel whilst being regailed by tales of how the Krays were just a couple of loveable rogues, and how their murderous antics were all just a bit of good old honest English eccentricity. Gawd bless em.

Again - this was all very out of character for me because I don't like talking to people I haven't met before. I used to be like this though. A lot.

Anyhow, we've played the place a few times now and it was the first time that we'd been there when either the promoter or the manager were there. Of course, they kept right to the background when all this was going on. Funny how when we closed the door on the last drunk that they suddenly appeared to see what was going on.

They should have let these guys in and directed them to the stage. I think I was more pissed off that they confiscated the flask I use to make sure I don't accidentally drink someone's gluten-enriched beer by mistake. Like the first time we played there. Oh how we laughed and spat blood. Of course, my explanations made no sense. So I had to go back and buy a bottle of cheap plonk all over again.

In a situation like that, it is very very easy to point to the manager or the promoter and say to the drunks "yeah mate - if you go have a word with them - they'll get the drinks in - it's OK, we told them you're alright - they're in charge of the drinks and don't take no for an answer".

Our set went OK but I was wearing a cardigan. Oh well. You reach a certain age... In another couple of months Beth and Patrick will be 'helping me up' onto the front of the stage as my beige Burberie slippers struggle to get a hold on the footlights. And I take my seat in a comfy armchair, have a sip of weak milky tea with a "spot of whisky in it", get out me banjo and start doing hobbled, wobbly, George Formby / pub-band renditions of Monsoon and Come On Behave:

"Come on kids, join in, everybody! I wouldn't 'you know what' if yer paid me too... (clanky, cockney-kneesup style piano fill) hee hee hee... turned out nice again..."

Devil's Gun weren't the headliners but they brought the crowd. They were a curious mix of cool {subdued performances from an M.C. and a female vocalist; latpop riffage and beats, live percussion} and uncool {slightly embarrassing Steve Vai style noodley guitar licks, and way too much of their 'live' sound seemed pre-recorded, including a lot of vocal parts and percussion.

Very much a post-Leftfield / Prodigy, 'Manchild' stlye affair - two guys with a lot of equipment fleshing out their sound with a live band. Not to put their live band down at all - it's really good to see a 'crew' rather than just one bloke with a load of kit. And they were really into what they were doing.

I for one certainly wouldn't hold a bit of reverse-reverb against anyone. Reverse-reverb. Nice. Very nice. It was nice to see an act using a lot of laptops and a lot of live instruments.

Damn Arms wore very tight jeans and had a loveable Joy Division style bass sound - and what they are doing is probably the most 'in' sound this evening. But the venue was almost empty when they went on stage. Funny how the way they work the running order out. The headline band go on about 11 and play to virtually no one. A headline band can do a lot of things. They can give their all and get no reaction. They can be press darlings but have no crowd. They can say nothing about the current state of music in this or any country. They were from Australia. They said they were from South Africa.

We wandered back to the hotel in our beer coats (thanks to Saint for that one). I only got about half way. Whilst the Russian Mekanoids, along with Woolly from Mammoth Management, D.J Bad Fucking Disease and Mekanoid press-officer Rollo Kim (walking as if their limbs had turned to rubber) sensibly consumed hearty burgers at the speed of light and then headed off at some speed in the direction of our hotel. What happened next is entirely Beth's fault.

If someone had said "come home Milk... let's watch TV and WiFi" I would be feeling a whole lot less shame right now. But no one said that. Instead, Beth gets that look in her eye. We Mekanoids don't make decisions very often, because we know that most plans go astray and it's sometimes better to just write songs about the weather, sweets and sex. So when one of us does make a decision, we don't argue, we just go to the pole dancing club.

Everyone else flees because they recognize the signs. They are standing behind, and with me in Beth's headlights, they make their escape. Cabs are hastily hailed. Mekanoids speedwalk into the distance. But not me. I guess I don't have their obligations. And maybe I still have lessons to learn. And all I can say is that I am very, very easily lead. And I like to drink. I'm not good at it, but I like trying.

The next thing I know, it's about 3.30 am and we are downing bottles of vodka mule like it mother's milk. Like we're in the kitchen at Kremlin and we're perfectly at home and there's no danger at all. Like we are indestructible. Life is good - we've just done a good gig and we're going to see the Boosh at the weekend and then who knows.

Whilst in reality, all around us, harsh white lazer light illuminates the baby-oiled flesh of scantly clad undernourished ladyboys as they throw themselves around silver poles. In the shadows, through the whorls of smoke and moistore, there are older, wider men with damp eyes and flushed features. Imagine the movie Aliens with an assortment of sweaty, drunk men instead of the sweaty black-rubber things with the human sex organs for body parts. They clear their throats and adjust their jackets, balancing drinks in their other hands. But not for us the shadows. That wouldn't be cool. We are Sid and John skulking in London's gay discos to escape the right wing nutters, perched upon tall bar stools, piling up empty Smirnov bottles along the neon-light catwalk, cheering like clockwork and burning holes in walls with our glaring. Whilst the scrawny boygirls do their thing.

It wasn't my idea. Before you start. It wasn't my idea to do this. Ask anyone, I have about as much sexuality as a shed door.

Anyway, back in Eastenders, It occurs to me that all this alcypop vodka is without a doubt - at some point - going to cost us about 20 Euros a bottle. And neither of us have any money. I sensibly stole both our wallets about two hours earlier and threw them over a wall. What little change we had left - and I remember now - we gave to some bloke we met on the way to set fire to the building just before dawn. What can I tell you, I'd been reading about Grant Morrison and felt like doing something 'post-thug'.

Of course, this meant that we didn't have the entrance fee for the 'Gentlemen's Club'. We only got in because Beth told the bouncer that we just needed to look for a purse. "Milk's purse. Because Milk's one of the dancers. Here. In this club. And Milk left a purse."

What can I say? It worked. Bruised male ego - or more booze? In my world, that's no difficult decision. I have no self esteme and my mind likes to torture my liver. Plus, It was the middle of the night and I was clean shaven. And I may or may not have been wearing more makeup than Beth. The details are no longer clear. They never were. My mind was too busy cackling at other organs.

There's nothing worse than shaving and then just having an early night is there? Come on!

We may or may not have written a song or two. To be recorded in a suitably sleazy night-club. And an idea for a video. Involving "some wankers, yeah?!" We may or may not have recorded said ideas, in the gent's toilet, whilst beating up an expansive, expensive man in a blue pinstripe suit. I'm not willing to listen to the files.

Live the moment. Then re-live it. In your nightmares.

I don't really remember how we made our escape either. I want to tell you that we simply waltzed out, daring them to stop us. I want to make something up that is really melodramatic and will make you think of us as grimey fighters for good causes. Dickensian innocents who just want to get along. But I'm too bruised and confused to kid you.

The truth maybe something closer to us having to shake our palid Mekanoid booties. On the catwalk. With the sweat and the lights and the smoke. There may have been that 'I'm a Model' song by Right Said Fred involved. Until we worked off our tab. Or until we frightened enough people away for them to just let us go. Which is why we were able to make it back to the hotel. That and the fact that there was a mysterious fire.

A few hours sleep smearing makeup on sheets. Lips applying lint. Then breakfast. I ask for "no toast for me please thank you." So they give me bread instead. Then we decide we need to go to London Zoo.

Although we do have a couple more gigs lined up, we're going to be laying low for a while. If you've read this far, I think you'll understand why.

We want to focus more on getting new songs mixed down, and getting them out to you. Rather than attempting to kill ourselves with booze, or get ourselves killed through the consumption of the afore-mentioned precious, magical liquid.

There's a possibility that when we do return to live things we'll be a ever-so slightly different. There may or may not be overweight middle-aged men in pinstripe suits dancing around silver poles at the back of the stage. But we can't promise anything.

Anyway. Then we went to the zoo. I am not joking. That is not a metaphor for inserting drugs and sweets up one another's bums or anything. That's called 'mixing down'. We went to London Zoo. And it was ace.

I saw animals I have never seen before, not even in a book, let alone in person... Very very strange. More than a little bit wrong and sad. Animals that don't have room to run. Animals that have loads of eyes but don't see very well. Animals that seem to have something like a bedroom and a bathroom... one little 'room' to eat and sleep in, and another one to bathe, drink and defecate in. No room to run. No room to hide. No room to play. Not when the animal feels like it. Maybe they get 'let out' when it's logistically acceptable. Dead sad. And it all seemed a little unreal. For country / bush people like ourselves, animals behind bars and concrete always seem tragic, but also sort of washed-out, like they need to get out and shake the dust off and get some sun on their backs. Which might not be too far from the truth at all I guess.

Be seeing you.

Links:

Flame On

Eskimo Disco.

The Walk Off.

Archie 'Oldest game in the world innit, eh?'

Beer Coats.

Damn Arms.

The Mekano Set

"It's 5 am in Brighton. A slightly confused
Milk is looking out of a window, in order to
establish his exact location."

Hello you. Well, it's been a busy start to the year. Lots going on @ Mekano Towers. Some cool gigs coming up. We're back in West London on Wednesday for a night of alt / electronic / D&B tinged bands. Really looking forward to that one. A really cool line-up for the night: Flame On, Damn Arms, Devil's Gun, The Walk Off, and Eskimo Disco.

Plus, we're playing with the stylish slick and shiny Machines @ Engine Rooms in March. If you need specifics, you can always subscribe to our ludicrous Mekanoid NoiseLetter, which, whilst containing news, is also designed to be quite entertaining in its own right. Also - our server will always try and understand you, and therefore will never try to sell your email address to people who want to sell you some kind of herbal strap-on dog-breast viagra.



Beth & Saint
{Channeling Mekanoid Electroplasm}



We're also putting on the first official Please Make Sense night on Wednesday 15th March - with the brilliant Oom headlining the night. More about that soon...











Pictured: D.J. Bad Fucking Disease, Beth and Oscar 'doing stuff'...

Have you been checking out our 'Mekano Set and Fiends' PodCasts? You can subscribe for free via the iTunes store. They're pretty easy on the ears, even if I do say so myself...

Recently, we've also been putting together a lavishly packaged new... package. A high-art looking, exotic 'Diplomatic Mekanoid Pouch' affair containing all manner of delicious mekanoid goodies, in a wax-seal / hand-made-paper / limited / numbered 'edition' stylee.

"Why Milk?"

Because we fancied a change. There's just something a bit boring about your typical jewel-case... the way they fall apart the first time you open them. Even DigiPack type things tend to get a bit threadbare pretty quickly. You can still buy copies of the e.p. in the usual format, or grab one for free at gigs, but we have to keep things moving.




Oliver Spleen's happening flesh @ Engine Room
Mr. S Birch, Miss Garfield & Ridder AcePhotographer
'bringing up the rear'


More info at the delicious web sites :

Mekanoid NoiseLetter.

www.thefleshhappening.com

http://www.oomroom.co.uk/

Rock and Roll Sweat Box.

http://www.themachines.co.uk/

www.mekanoset.com

Free Mekano Set PodCast @ iTunes store.

Engine Room Images © www.rockandrollsweatbox.co.uk 2006

Be seing you... The Mekano Set