home
|
about
|
news
|
contents
|
gossip
|
photographs
|
venues
|
brighton
|
dublin
|
edinburgh
|
film
|
features
|
interviews
|
awards
|
fashion
|
recipes
|
no more drinks
|
newsletter
|
links
|
contact
Latest items? Unedited? Fringe Report Uncut
The Mules
Verdict: Music and mayhem
Live Band
London – Notting Hill Arts Club – 5 July 05
Last Tuesday I saw The Mules play West London. It is only days later that I have recovered sufficiently to be able to dictate this report:
I still cannot walk, or even hold my glass of sherry without tipping it over my slippers. What occurred during the concert itself is still a mystery to me, but I hope my recollection of the events that followed will serve as an echo of what must have taken place.
On returning home, I found myself facing a personal apocalypse. The door to my home was wide open. So was every window. From the house streamed the sounds of finely-tuned chaos. The bathroom appeared to be on fire. I crossed myself, and entered gingerly. I prepared to battle against whatever devil had decided to make my home its own.
The extent of the destruction inside was beyond the limit of decent discourse. Forgive me if the following words offend. But the face of truth is often ugly. In my hall I stood, dumbstruck. My feet were submerged in a nameless liquid that came up to my ankles. It was fed by a river that cascaded down the stairs and through the banisters.
I waded through to the drawing room, where I found a troop of small monkeys entertaining themselves with my gramophone. One sat manning the handle, ensuring the mechanism was operating at maximum velocity. Another lay on his back on the lip of the trumpet-speaker, tickling his testicles. The rest of this gang of simian delinquents had busied themselves turning my bookshelves into a makeshift cabaret stage. Several monkeys were busy dancing in a vulgar way. The majority sat jeering happily and smoking cigarettes on an island of books in the middle of the room. The music was unrecognizable, but obscene in both content and form.
I turned back to the hall to see my dog Tosca floating by in a large frying pan, howling like a thing possessed. He had an empty bottle of Fino tucked under his front legs. My attempts to rouse him proved futile, and he sailed on, out of the front door and away into the night.
My thoughts turned to my darling wife, who had stayed at home that evening with the intention of finishing off a box of fondants. After a laboured ascent through the torrent now pouring from the landing upstairs I turned the corner into our bedroom. My wife lay writhing on the bed. She was wearing nothing but a fur coat. And was squealing like a drunken piglet.
And on the wallpaper, was the word Mules, daubed in red paint, scrawled thousands of times:
Mules... Mules... Mules
The last thing I remember was a loud bang from the bathroom, at which point I collapsed on the floor in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
When I woke, I was in bed, with my wife. She was soundly asleep in her usual nightdress. The walls were pristine once again. The whole house was silent.
I cannot explain these events. But I am looking forward to a speedy recovery. Upon which I plan to join The Mules for another night of music and mayhem.
*** CREDITS ***
Band: The Mules: (alpha order): Nico Beedle – fiddle, bass. Duncan Brown – guitar. Tim Burke – piano, moog. Jim Lesslie – bass, guitar, banjo. Ed Seed – drums, singing, harmonica, songs. Company: Organ Grinder Records.
END
(c) Mike Toller 2005
reviewed Tuesday 5 July 05 / The Notting Hill Arts Club
sub-editor – Sarah Shavel
Fringe Report (c) Fringe Report 2002-2012
www.fringereport.com
