Headspace at the Indigo o2 - 07/08/2009
Big boobs, perky boobs, small boobs, fit arses, fat arses, all the rich tapestry of a gig at the Indigo2 I’m sure. For this to be my only meaningful observation within the first two hours should emphasise the quality of music that was on display. I had drank; quickly, slowly, pulling faces, without pulling faces, spluttered, spat, dribbled, gulped, gagged, and stumbled at the price of a beer. I shouldn’t be so suprised. It’s London, it’s a tourist hotspot. We’re all meant to be fucking rich. What can I say, I only paid for one beer. I’m cheap.
These two hours passed in a maudlin hell, I would rather have plucked out my own eye-balls and masticated their remnants. It was all right though, the reason I was there, still hadn’t played yet, and they were just as dissatisfied, fearing an evening of apocalyptic hell that might just end all our hopes and dreams, Headspace, waited. More particularly David Page and I waited, leaning casually against the bar, like ‘old-school’, grizzled, western, pioneers, mumbling their dissatisfaction on a dirty saloon bar. This was no saloon though, this was the Indigo2, they had employed someone to wipe the floor for fucks sake! Dirty, you couldn’t even catch swine flu here, I swear I saw several anti-bacterial handwash dispensers within close proximity. I was going to catch nothing,- except maybe gonorrhoea, I doubt that would’ve been their fault though, -here. The first band came and went invariably they were just a non-entity, all I can remember of them were that they were called Demure, because it sounded like ‘manure’ and I thought it most apt as they were shit.
The second band well here’s the best I could come up with;
‘The guitar sounds like a wasp in a jar, if they make me sound like that you have to do something.’
‘What like take them out?’
‘Yeah, that’d be good.’
It all happened so fast, no not the violence, but rather their dilapidated sound, their beer-swilling, skin-headed, smooth man-boobed, bassist, and their general lack of musical direction. I have no idea what they were even called I couldn’t pay attention, I was too busy talking about Julian Opie.
Then it all ended. David lept up from the bar, bid everyone goodbye and the crowd migrated to the dancefloor.
There was a tense atmosphere, Mr Page had let known, his and my own wonder at the suitability of the crowd. How would they go down? What the hell are they doing here? It’s not intimate enough, what in God’s name had we done! Oh Jesus!
That was it though, Russian Rocket started and the uncertainty dissipated, dispersed within the phantom airwaves. Headspace rocked. Plain and simple. With no uncertainty. They were clearly the most user-friendly act there. Their satircal lyrics, there easy grove, the intensity of which the performance was crafted. They were feeling the music, not only playing it, but were it. There was a level of stage presence that the other bands didn’t possess. I know little about playing guitar, I know less about arranging music, but my God I know satire and a certain desolate intensity with which these boys went about their performance. These are the gigs you sit back and muse over and think. Why don’t they have a bigger following?
This isn’t about money, this isn’t about fame, this is about music.
Nowhere but the stage was this idea, beautifully reproduced with an arch-wit. The crowd danced, tapped their feet in rhythm, people looked on tentatively at the beginning of the set, to be thrust into the middle of the groove by the end. The crowd had accepted Headspace as a class act. Their was a sudden buzz in the arena. People had awoken. They were talking, there was adrenaline pumping, by the end people were singing along. This was it, humanity was resuscitated. And all it took was a performance of music that wasn’t about the crowd, wasn’t about the money, this was about passion. This was passion. This meant, and felt.
One might say that I have to write a pleasant review, because I know Headspace. Well fuck it, if I thought they were shit, I’d love to tell them. ‘But they aint.’ As I would say in my quaint native tongue. Headspace truly do rock. So if you want my advice, which I couldn’t give two flying figs if you do or don’t, I’m gonna give it anyway, go onto this link. Copy and paste it onto your browser;
http://www.myspace.com/headspacerocks
And take a few moments to have a laugh with Headspace. You never know it might just brighten your day, because lets face it, unless you’re working in Westminster, or in Canary Wharf, you actually have to be competent to get paid. So you’re fucked if you can laugh at yourself at work.
John Michael Greene