Almost Weekly #3

January 18, 2007

Over and Over – Hot Chip (covered by Get Cape, Wear Cape, Fly)

Nambucca is once again rammed with its dispossessed punters. Malcontent punks, narcissist scensters and the meek and fey rub shoulders, straining for glances around the hairspray queens and dust-jacketed Princes. The heating’s clearly been on all day and people are shuffling onto the gig floor to join the cameraderie of Frank Turner’s album launch. Everyone knows everyone, and those you don’t know you recognise. We’ve all got a friend in here tonight, and those that don’t are making them through a creeping haze of beer-pump-fizz.

Mr Turner’s rallied all to his cause. We ARE definitely going to hell, and we’re swapping stories now because we’ll have a few too many to while away the hours of Dante’s Inferno. His friends onstage are doing the same, and it’s genuinely charming to be in Frank’s gang for the night. Sam ‘Get Cape, Wear Cape, Fly’ Duckworth ambles onstage to applause and whistles. To some he’s a friend, to some a bit of an idol, to all he’s another in the tag-team of acoustic minstrels celebrating the pressed plastic that unites punters and pals tonight.

His last song is a cover version. Something magical happens. Simple chords, woven with a simple instrument, creep through the crowd to recognition and smiles. Charmed, we’re sure. The air is hot and thick, groggy to a man, woman and fan and drunk on goodwill we’re transported to summer. The song was ubiquitous once, we know all the words, our hips have bopped and our necks have bobbed. Over and over and over and over. It’s summer again. Before my eyes Bestival sits, a crowd tribal in its aproproation of fancy dress and colour soaks up the sun and sound of a basin-turned-home. Over and over and over and over. Laid back, head on the cushions in my room having a listen to the song coming from the jammed car on the street below. Laid Back, I’ll Give You Laid Back. Stood Up. In Panic. Full dancefloor, lost to alcohol and the eyes of pretty girls in fancy dress of a different sort. Tap the foot, throw the shapes. Like a Monkey With a Miniature Cymbal. Don’t lose the fuzzy bass-line whatever you do, synths dictate your pace, everbody’s building to the climax that just won’t come. The song doesn’t end, it carries on because how can you finish something so pure? You can only make transistions. Mix. Now Temptation. Now Song 2. Now Rebellion. Then Over and Over by Hot Chip.

Or you can tap the body of the acoustic guitar a little too hard, as Duckworth does, cutting short memories that you’ll revisit again, some summer future, in a field, on a floor, in a club.


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