The Thousands

At the Birmingham Odeon in 1977, a barely-recovered Iggy Pop ad-libbed a ferocious anti-heroin diatribe, culminating in the desperate phrase; ‘Heroin Hates You!’. Bootleggers quickly put out a double vinyl set.

We’re human, we make mistakes. Not everyone pays tax, but there’s nothing surer in life than our ability to make mistakes except death. After several years battling with the side-effects of heroin addiction, Rowland S Howard brought out the wonderful Pop Crimes, then finally succumbed. He’s not the only one associated with music of that period who got damaged by the drug; but he is better known than, say, his brother.

Which brings me to a recent gig at the Metropolitan Hotel. Almost Numan supported, a jolly Numan/Devo bunch, and the crowd loved them. Then, it seems, being Saturday and all, everyone had to leave to catch the last bus home or something. A tenth of the crowd remained.

It’s been 25 years since I last saw Grong Grong, which was a few weeks before their last gig (supporting Public Image Ltd) when lead singer Michael mixed american whiskey and Sydney smack and nearly died. A long coma later, he was in a wheelchair and the band were over. His half-brother Charlie turned up in two long-infamous bands: King Snake Roost and Lubricated Goat before succumbing to heroin’s dubious charm.

So, twenty five years later, Michael, who I recognized first because he would be the only one grimly forcing himself into the Metropolitan’s back area on two sticks, pretty much dragging his legs behind him. Michael’s vocals were always guttural, a dirty howl while we slammed about the floor. He was a powerful presence, and the black balaclava added an air of perverted menace.

All those years ago Charlie was a large, spheroid chap with a number one who held his guitar like a carefully-shaved gorilla would a toy, grinding his hips obscenely. A little later he ambled into the Metro. Long grey hair, a lopsided toothless grin, we barely recognized each other.

Michael gritted his way toward the seat on the stage, now wearing a leather gimp mask. Musically the band are tidier, tighter than I remembered. Also, they were all sober. Charlie’s fingers – swollen and deformed from arthritis – moved over the fretboard like mangled crabs, producing his trademark sound: rats skittering along a drainpipe and tension headache. George commanded the kit with his usual aplomb, and ringer Nathan looked his most handsome in a ski mask with a texta-d Dartagnon moustache. Michael was trapped in his chair, trying hard to make himself heard. Toward the end he raised himself up and plopped back down. Finally he stood, swayed briefly and toppled forward, wrestling his legs into some semblance of utility. The band concluded with the Stooges’ ‘Loose’ and their signature anthem, ‘Grong Grong’.

As they packed up, the lead singer crawled along the floor toward the door while the rest of the band chatted. They’re not a charitable band, they’re quite rough around the edges. But they’re still here, somehow, and sober. Amazing how much difference that makes; but then, it’s been 25 years.

Nick Cave has been far luckier than he knows.