Hoxton nights
I went out last night. BF and co. were playing at The Foundry, near Old Street roundabout, which coincidentally happens to be about 100 yards from my office. So off I popped to see what was afoot. And there was much.
I’ve never been anywhere like The Foundry before. For those not in the know, Hoxton, the area in which I work, was once the place to be seen out and about if you wanted to be part of the trendy set in our great capital. So I never came here. I haven’t got an asymmetric hair-cut for starters, and frankly, if you’re not in the running for a Jarvis Cocker looky-likey competition, you’re on a hiding to nothing anyway. I still have palpitations about going out round here in case I get arrested for wearing clothes without rips in.
BF and co. were on at about 10, so we went for some dinner, and moseyed on back at around 9ish to see what was on. We’d missed the main event – the lead singer spent the rest of the gig floating around the front of the stage in a white silk dress, wearing white pancake makeup and a blonde beehive wig, and dancing as if her legs were being held up by beanpoles. Occasionally she’d throw herself into a frenzy of Irish dancing a la Michael ‘Riverdance’ Flatley. The first thing we saw was a very odd duo – I didn’t catch the name.
There were two members. The main man looked as if he’d spent his life trying to look like a miserable version of Terry Nutkins from Animal Magic. He played a combination of instruments, one of which involved him waving his hands about between two metal sticks to make a screeching sound. The other one involved lots of knob twiddling, and the finale came when he put a pink child’s welly on his hand and stamped it up and down the keyboard, eyes closed, head thrown back in an orgy of self-expression. His band mate was wearing a pair of trousers that kept falling down round his bum. He was playing a cello, after a fashion. Mostly it was just irredeemably awful noise – the proverbial thousand monkeys attempting to recreate Mozart on a thousand electric keyboards. I couldn’t stop laughing. I know I shouldn’t, but it was so horrendous, I couldn’t help myself.
I kept looking around to see if anyone else had noticed how bizarre the whole thing was, but no, they applauded, and off he went to smoke a giant bifter at the table, accompanied by his three mates. These blokes, all of whom were wearing trousers that showed their underwear, were clad in an arresting combination of women’s hats. They’d been out to the organic food shop nearby, and come back with some corn crispbreads and a lump of cheese, which they proceeded to eat at the table. I swear it was like some horribly twisted WI tea party.
Then on after them was a very intense girl with a brown bob, who sang intense versions of Nina Simone songs as if she was the only person in the room. She came back a bit later, during the final act (Australian in curly wig and sunglasses, screaming rock songs about wombat sacrifices in Victoria) to do a bit of intense headbanging.
But the piece de resistance was an act called John Callaghan’s AutokaraokeThere’s nothing I can say that can do this man justice. He was brilliant. He went through a blinding variety of clinging dresses, and ended up wearing half a suit, but he started off the act inside a cardboard box on which were 2 painted ping pong balls for eyes, a sponge with a slit in it for a mouth, and a stuffed babygro. I enjoyed it immensely. We ran into him on the tube on the way home, and he was telling us he’s had the box for years. It’s in pretty good shape, considering.
I still think BF and co. were the best though. But then I would.