Midlands Music Festival 2
Posted on Thursday, August 3, 2006We don’t go home after all, though it’s a close call. We drive back to the venue, collect Joe’s car and pull up beside the tents, wet, miserable, hung over and pissed off. And then the sun comes out again. I look at Joe. Joe looks back at me. “Ah fuck it, let’s stay.”
The truth is, we have work to do. Yesterday, though we managed to kill Charlie Landsborough, we failed to take out Kenny Rodgers. This was a disgrace, as we’ll probably never be that close to the bastard again, but today we have a chance to redeem ourselves. In the afternoon, both Don McLean and Glenn Campbell are on the main stage. We can get both of them. Also, later, we can whack Van Morrison. I have a personal reason for getting this fat bastard: years ago he walked off stage half way through a gig at the Hammersmith Odeon that I had spent a week’s food money to attend (I was poor then). I never forgave him, even when he became Denis Frantz, and every time I switched on Hill Street Blues I was screaming at Jesus to rip Van Morrison open.
Now, we have made a dreadful mistake. We have forgotten a vital component in our plan to rid the world of these fuckers. Whiskey. We drank it all last night and forgot to buy more in Mullingar. I don’t know how we’re going to deal with this setback. Furthermore, this crowd is divided into two clear and distinct constituencies. There are people like myself and Joe, who came to hear Lambchop, Guy Clark, Loudon Wainwright, Emmylou, Jackson Browne and suchlike. Then there’s the other crowd, in white plastic miniskirts, white cowboy boots, rhinestones and purple cowboy hats. That’s right: the population of Donegal, and they’d be here for the fuckers we’re about to murder. This could be tricky.
Joe’s eyes go squinty and his fingers twitch. He’s chewing a cheroot and flexing his gun-hand the way I’ve seen him do a thousand times. The way he does just before some hombre says his last prayer. When Wrinkly Joe’s in this mood, you’d best be ridin’ out real pronto, Pilgrim.
“Come on,” he snarls, and shoulders his way past a gang of fat Castleblayney birds in matching pink fake-buckskin ponchos. Don McLean is on stage, whinging his way through Vincent’s American Ear but you can clearly see that he’s spotted Joe. The blood drains from his face, and he reaches for the Henry rifle propped against his amp, but it’s too late. Joe’s hand is a blur as he hauls the long-barrelled Buntline Special from its greased holster and powers a half dozen slugs straight at McLean’s forehead. He’s dead before he hits the floor. “Come on,” says Wrinkly Joe, and we walk calmly away through the crowd. Few seem to have noticed that Don McLean has been shot dead, and most of them continue to clap along.
Now this has really put it up to me. Glenn Campbell is on next and I have to decide between murdering him or Van Morrison. It’s no contest. We retire to our tents for a quick snooze, which is the kind of thing you need at our age. Especially following a brutal killing. We’ll catch Tony Joe White, and after that, it’s Van. I have a plan for this fat fucker, based on intelligence I gathered some years back. One night, a good many years ago, I happened to be in the Rajdoot Indian Restaurant, which was at the back of that hotel in Grafton Street - I forget the name of it. They had a guy at the door in curly slippers, just like in India. Anyhow, it just happened that on this particular night, Van the Man happened to be dining there too, the fat fuck, and what’s more he had a pair of these over-dressed over-made-up model-type groupies with him. God almighty, I just got an awful picture in my head. (Quick! How does the riff to Smoke in the Water go? Oh thank fuck. Just in time). Anyway, as I said, Van was bracketed by this pair, and he was charming them both by holding a plate of food right in front of his fat gob and pushing it down his throat with the side of a knife. Lovely.
You see, it couldn’t be better. In this place, as it happens, there’s a wide variety of food stalls where you can buy chilli wraps, baked spuds, burgers, panini, and - yes, AND! - a stall called an Teach Balti . I make this up not. We made the mistake of buying from this stall last night, beef jalfrezi I think, and I can tell you, these Indians are definitely cowboys. This stuff is fucking poison.
“You there,” I shout at the proprietor. “Gimme forty packs of that filthy swill you sold me last night. Yeah. The stuff I puked straight back at you. That’s right. With everything on it.”
We elbow our way through the adoring crowd and, amazingly, Van is still on stage. He hasn’t thrown a fit yet and stormed off. He hasn’t sacked the entire band or hit anybody with a saxophone. I have stolen a purple cowboy hat and filled it with beef jalfrezi, which I now place gingerly on the edge of the stage, just as he launches into Hungry for your Love. Without breaking the rhythm, Van reaches down, grabs the curry-filled hat and swallows it, in one graceful movement. Everybody watches horrified as Van’s eyes bulge and his face goes bluish red.
“No change there,” says Joe. “It isn’t working.”
But I know better. “Give it a chance.”
With that, Van sags visibly. His knees buckle and he falls face first onto his saxophone. He’s farting loudly and the crowd go wild. He’s thrashing around as his central nervous system system breaks down under the strain of the deadly Balti.
Joe’s not convinced. “It didn’t kill him.”
“Give it time,” I say. “It’s supposed to be slow.”
“Fuck this shit,” says Joe, and shoots Van as he pukes his last on the stage.
“For fucksake,” I say, “there was no need for that!”
“No?” says Joe. “Do you want to miss the Hacienda Brothers? Well, do ya?”
I can see his point.
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May 8th, 2007
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July 26th, 2007
[…] you might recall our adventures from last year, when we worshipped at the feet of the sublime Emmy-Lou Harris, enjoyed Loudon Wainwright, Tony-Joe […]