Venusberg | That's not your heart, it's a piece of helicopter casing

Monday, April 30, 2001

Elvendrums, as we have already discussed, are a load of mouldy old cock. Elf Power, on the other hand, are a load of lovely fresh rock. I saw them play at RoTa on Saturday, at the hilariously Corduroy-Flares-Cool Notting Hill Arts Club. There was a man there in a suit with a black polo neck, I swear...

Anyway. Unfortunately I missed the game of "spot Kevin Shields", along with Barefoot Contessa, only arriving for the end of the Irish Calexico - ABBC? Something along those lines. Who were fun, in a noisy way. But nothing could prepare myself and my youthful companion for the glory that was "the Power", live and in full effect.

GASP! As Jack, a ten-year old with a trumpet wearing a The Strokes t-shirt (and thus the coolest kid ever) accompanies them on the second song!

GAPE! As Laura Carter, who epitomises receding-chinned serious-looking Sleater-Kinney indie-girl wonder, struggles not to lose it completely and collapse into fits of giggles at the might that is Tiny Jack!

COME! As they finish with a blinding cover of "Queen Bitch", and a guitar is smashed. In a really lovable way.

BLEED! At the frontman's uncanny resemblance to an indie Mike Nesmith!

DIE! As you realise that they look a lot more like elves than Elvendrums, primarily by not being porky!

Rock-a-cola, basically. And, to put the cap on the whole glorious business, we found a pub which had all but run out of beer, which scene of desolation provided the perfect backdrop for James' attempt to evoke a childhood in the wilds of Norfolk. Broads. Not swamps. Don't call them swamps.

"The nearest shop was three miles away. And that was the sort of shop where you can buy milk. Three miles from milk, and a hundred miles from indie rock."

When I ghostwrite his autobiography, it shall be called Three Miles from Milk, a Hundred Miles from Indie Rock.

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